


Letters for the Road

by lanri



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Swap, Alternate Universe - Firefly Setting, Amputation, Concussions, Depressed Sam, Episode: s01e15 The Benders, Gen, Guilty Dean, Hallucinations, Hurt Sam Winchester, Panic Attacks, Permanent Injury, Post-Episode: s12e02 Mamma Mia, Prompt Fic, Protective Castiel, Protective Dean Winchester, Psychological Trauma, Seizures, Sick Sam Winchester, Stabbing, Stanford Era, Starvation, fey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-08-24 09:01:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 29,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8366293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanri/pseuds/lanri
Summary: Supernatural prompt fic shenanigans. With a hurt!Sam focus because that's just me. Current prompt: Turn Your Face Away for bittersweetjoypost Bobby "lose my number" angst fest. With a bonus of sam!whump :D Closed for prompting and complete!





	1. Guidelines

Prompt fic time! 

Okay friends! Whether you've been around a long time (I love you) or you've just stumbled upon my fic (I also love you), this is your shot! What's your greatest hurt!Sam scenario you've always wanted to see in fic? Or a fic that has been done a hundred times but it's just your favorite thing ever so you wanna see it again? Or some random word that's stuck in your brain and you want to laugh as I scramble to make a relevant fic out of it? 

Song fic, one word prompts, long near-essays on a fic you want me to write . . . it's your chance! 

Some quick ground rules: 

1\. I reserve the right to choose which prompts to write for, to adjust prompts if needed for my own writing process. If I can't get to your prompt, I will let you know. 

2\. Essentially, my rating maximum is R for violence, nothing beyond that. Also I pretty much only write gen. 

3\. I'm going to aim to do this with a hurt!Sam focus, so keep that in mind when you prompt. 

4\. Please be polite, and have fun with this like I hopefully will! 


	2. Reflections (Nocx)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt by Nocx on ff.net! Starting off the hurt!Sam extravaganza with some good ol' season 6 angst.

“You’re telling me that the only reason we’re here is because some soccer mom went crazy?”

Sam scowled. “That isn’t what I said, Dean.”

For some reason, Dean seemed pleased at Sam being so annoyed. “Oh yeah?”

Sam sighed long-sufferingly. “From every single person in the entire town, Mrs. Campos was totally healthy, completely sane, and out of nowhere began insisting that her children were, quote, ‘wrong.’”

Dean’s mouth twisted, and Sam thought suddenly of Lisa and Ben and bit his lip.

“Um, but I could put another hunter on this,” he suggested weakly.

“No, it’s a good case. So we’re thinking changeling, something along those lines?” Dean said quickly.

Sam nodded. “Sounds right to me.”

“Alright.” Dean went back to staring out the passenger window and Sam pulled into the local grocery store. “So get some food, motel, and then check out the chick?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Dean, you can’t just call women chicks, you know. I mean, I’ll make an exception for women in bars, but on a case?”

Instead of making some crass comment like usual, Dean looked pretty much delighted at Sam telling him off. Sam blinked at him uncertainly until Dean jerked his head and stepped out of the car in a rush.

“You go get your health crap and we’ll meet at the car.”

“Sure.” Sam bemusedly watched his brother stride away. Things had definitely been off since he had woken up in the panic room. 

* * *

Sam let Dean take the lead, letting him convince the husband they were doing an inspection for termites and they were ushered into the house.

“You have a nice home,” he commented. “Is the rest of your family around?”

“Kids are at school, and my wife—“ The guy’s face twisted.

Sam said hesitantly, “are you okay?”

He nodded sharply. “Um, yeah, she’s in the hospital.”

“I’m so sorry.” Sam placed a hand on the guy’s shoulder. “Will she be okay?”

Mr. Campos swiped at his eyes. “I’m not sure, they keep saying it’s some kind of mental breakdown.”

“Here, sit,” Sam soothed.

“Sorry, you don’t want to hear all this,” he muttered.

Sam knelt a little lower to be on his level. “No, it’s fine. Honestly, you’d be surprised what us inspectors end up doing. Babysitting, cleaning up after the dog, getting a gramma to the hospital, we’ve done it all.”

He got a small smile out of Mr. Campos. “Thanks. It’s just been hard, y’know? The kids don’t know what’s going on, and they want their mother back.”

“I’m sure.” Sam hesitated, but it seemed he was done talking. “Well, my partner and I will get through this inspection as fast as possible and get out of your hair.”

“Thank you.”

Sam stood, frowning a little at Dean, who should’ve been looking around the room at least, and was instead just standing there, watching them with a strange expression on his face. At his pointed stare, Dean actually flushed and began to climb the stairs to the second story.

“Geez, Dean, what is up with you?” Sam whispered. “You’re off your game.”

“Nothing, it’s just nice to have you take the lead with witnesses again,” Dean said.

Sam stopped, stymied at the thought. “I—when I was soulless, what did I do?”

Dean rounded on him. “Don’t think about it,” he demanded.

“Fine, fine.” Sam pressed his lips together. “But tell me you wouldn’t want to know if it were you.”

“I get that, Sam, but you gotta play this safe.”

Sam peeked into nearest room. “Looks like the master bedroom’s up here.”

“I’ll check the bathroom.”

“Okay.” Sam paced around the room, carefully examining the many belongings of Mr. and Mrs. Campos. “Nothing,” he called. Dean didn’t answer, and Sam’s heart beat a little faster. “Dean?”

Dean popped out of the bathroom, eyes sharp. “What?”

“Oh, just there’s nothing funky in here. Wanna check the kids’ bedrooms?”

“Sure.” Dean didn’t move, though, staring at Sam unsettlingly.

“Dean?”

“Go ahead.”

“Sure.” It felt weird to take the lead, but Sam put it down as a quirk from whatever had happened while his soul had been gone. Frustratingly, the rest of their assessment of the house seemed pointless; no signs of magicks, changelings, or anything supernatural.

Sam got into the Impala with a sigh. “Well, that didn’t help. I guess we’ll have to check on the kids next, right?”

Dean didn’t respond, and Sam glanced over at him. “Dude. You okay?”

Dean cleared his throat. “Yeah.” He pulled out of the driveway. Sam eyed him, but was too tired to try and figure out why Dean was being weird. Ever since he had woken up, he’d been exhausted. He drifted off without meaning to.

The car came to a sudden stop, and Sam grunted. “‘m up,” he mumbled.

A sharp pain at the top of his head made Sam yelp. He was dragged across the front seat by his hair and tossed to the ground outside of the Impala. As he tried to scramble upright, a heavy boot kicked him down, and slammed into his chest.

“Where’s Sam?”

Sam blinked uncomprehendingly at his brother. “Wha—Dean?”

The knife in Dean’s hand was held unwaveringly in front of Sam’s face. “Don’t make me repeat myself again. Where. Is. Sam.”

“I—I’m right here.” Sam groaned as the pressure increased against his ribcage. “Dean, what are you doing?”

A curse was bit out above him, and Sam found himself flipped over. Dean began to reach for handcuffs and Sam panicked. If Dean somehow thought he was someone else, then it could end very badly.

He kicked out, rolling away until he could push upwards and take off. He made it three steps before a sharp pressure in his calf made him stumble and fall. Sam couldn’t help but cry out as Dean approached, yanking his knife free of the muscle in Sam’s calf before holding it to Sam’s throat.

“See, I have to keep you alive so you’ll tell me where my brother is. But no one said I can’t hurt you,” he snarled.

Sam had one chance, and he took it. He kicked up, getting Dean in the solar plexus before doing a roundhouse to the side of his brother’s head. Dean went down like a sack of bricks.

Sam groaned, staggering upwards.

He couldn’t take care of this on his own. Sam pulled out his cell phone with shaking hands and called Bobby. 

* * *

 

After Bobby had patched him up, they looked at Dean in silence.

“You think . . . curse?” Sam suggested quietly. He hadn’t missed how Bobby wouldn’t look him in the eyes, and maintained a distance of three feet from him.

Bobby scratched his head. “I s’pose. Can’t go into the house to see without risking getting whammied ourselves. You think the husband—“

“No.” Sam shook his head. “He was genuine.”

“Dean do anything you didn’t?”

“There might’ve been something in the bathroom.”

Bobby sighed. “A ritual cleansing should do the trick. I’ll take care of it, you keep an eye on your brother.”

Sam nodded, staying away from Bobby in deference to how skittish the man was. Bobby hesitated, but left without saying anything else.

“You monster.”

Sam jumped; Dean was awake, malice curving his features into a vicious snarl.

“Dean, you’ve been cursed, okay? It’ll make sense when Bobby does the cleansing.”

Dean glared at him. “Don’t bother lying. I know what you are. Monster.”

There was a strange ringing noise in his ears. He went into the bathroom, trying to compose himself. It wasn’t . . . it wasn’t right. Something was . . .

_“You’ll always be a monster to him.”_

_Sam keened as another one of his ribs was splintered under Lucifer’s grip._

_“Or did you really think that he cared when you fell with me? After all, he was getting rid of two monsters with one go.”_

_Sam shook his head, tears in his eyes. “No no no no—“_

_His voice cut off in another scream as Lucifer took his broken rib and stabbed it through his shoulder._

_“The truth hurts, isn’t that right?” Lucifer smiled at him. His face morphed into Dean’s. “If Dean were here, he’d be in my place, and you know it.”_

_“Dean,” Sam whispered._

_“Sammy,” Lucifer said, a mockery of Dean. “You were never good enough.”_

* * *

 

“Sam?”

Sam groaned, cold tile under his cheek. “Wha—“

Bobby was standing over him, but not close enough that Sam could touch him. “I found you like this. Did you pass out?”

Sam tried to remember, and shuddered—hellfire, Lucifer laughing, and so much pain. “Yeah, I passed out,” he said dully. “Blood loss.”

“I found it. Uh, some kind of enchanted mirror. Dean’s better, you want me to get his handcuffs off?”

Sam shook his head, pushing off the ground. “I got him. Thanks, Bobby.”

“Sure.” Bobby hovered a little, looking awkward. “You need, uh, anything else?”

“That’s okay.”

Sam hobbled out into the room, finding Dean looking around, confused and uncertain.

“Yo, Sammy, what happened?”

He thought of what Dean would think, how he would freak out if he knew the truth. He forced a smile onto his face. “Nothing, Dean, it’s all good.”

Dean looked critically over Sam. “Bobby said I was cursed. Did I hurt you?”

“No.”

Sam tried not to flinch back when Dean got up, but failed. Dean’s gaze darkened.

“Bobby? Sam hurt?”

“Leg,” Bobby said. He almost seemed like he was going to keep talking, but Sam frantically shook his head. Dean’s gaze was on Sam’s injured leg, so thankfully he missed the exchange.

“Crap, Sammy, this isn’t good.” Dean knelt, probing gently at the stitches. “Want some pain killers?”

“That’s okay, Dean.” Sam pulled his leg out of Dean’s grip. “Let’s head out, huh? We have a lot of hunts lined up.”

“Okay.”

Bobby left with a muttered farewell, and Sam’s heart twisted at the thought of what he must’ve done to make Bobby hate him so much.

“Sam. You’re sure you’re okay?”

Sam smiled, and lied. “Yeah, I’m fine.”


	3. The Sky So Far (Gabthevamp)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by Gabthevamp on ff.net who wanted a Firefly 'verse type deal with a River reminiscent Sam. I threw in a good ol' dose of hurt Sam, so have a double whammy of hurt and crazy Sam! May be a stretch for people who haven't watched Firefly, but hopefully this'll point a few people in that direction :D
> 
> Enjoy!

The crash from infirmary sent Dean sprinting down rusty metal stairs and careening into the room. He quickly assessed the situation—Sam, blood, knife—and acted, tackling his brother and pulling the knife away in one swift move. Sam didn’t resist, fingers slack on the blade.

“Sam, you daizi, what are you doing?” he growled.

“In the blood, the yellow, need to pull it out,” he said solemnly.

Dean cursed under his breath, pressing his hands over the nasty slice on Sam’s upper arm. “Yeah, well, I think the yellow’s just fine where it is.” He pulled Sam upright, searching his face. “You with me?”

The fuzzy quality in Sam’s gaze disappeared, and he focused on Dean’s face. “Until I die,” he said.

“That’s cheerful,” Dean muttered. “Okay, crazy boy, someone needs to pilot this boat, right? Isn’t that your job?”

“Keep flying.”

“That’s right.” Dean wrapped Sam’s arm, swallowing at the blood on his hands. “Think you can fly without crashing us?”

Sam nodded, making his way out of the room. Dean took a moment to collect himself, trying to focus on his breathing rather than Sam’s blood spattered over the floor.

He heard Bobby’s distinctive heavy tread.

“I thought he was getting better,” Dean said.

“Gorramit, boy, you gotta stop setting yourself up for disappointment. Kid’s screwed in the head a little, that’s just the way it is.”

As always, Dean’s stomach twisted at the thought of what the government had done to his brother. He changed the topic. “You find us another job?”

Bobby nodded. “Simple smuggling job.”

“No job’s ever simple.” Dean said.

“Ain’t that the truth.” Bobby scratched his head. “Anyway, this one picks up in Boros. Girls’ll probably want a break on Persephone, three of us can take care of it.”

“Two of us.” Dean met Bobby’s glance. “You deserve a break, Bobby. Sam and I will be fine.”

Bobby glanced significantly at Sam’s blood.

Dean didn’t back down. “You’ve left your home for too long, helping us hunt down these reavers.”

“Two to a boat? That’s suicide.”

“We’ve done it for years. Plus, it isn’t like we’re hunting, we’re just breaking the law.”

Bobby cursed in Chinese, turning away. “Alright,” he muttered. “I ain’t flying out to rescue you though.” 

* * *

 “Just the two of us, Sammy. Ellen, Jo, and Bobby just took the shuttle.”

Sam turned in the pilot chair. “The universe has eaten their souls and spit out bones.”

“Sure,” Dean agreed easily. “You ready to go pick up some contraband?”

Sam nodded. “What is it?” he asked.

“Some kind of statue, thing.”

“Articulate,” Sam insulted him.

Dean tried to look mad, but he was too pleased at Sam having his head out of the clouds.

The trip to Boros took long, as expected, but it was nice. Peaceful, really, having the boat to themselves.

* * *

They landed Impala far east of their destination, and took the shuttle into town. They emerged from the shuttle, blinking at the bright sunset in their eyes. Boros was a small planet, and most of the areas of population on it had a pretty back-town feel to it, except for the couple big cities on the planet. The two of them trekked through dense forest until reaching the edge of town.

“I’ll take the lead,” Dean said.

“You are bossy that way,” Sam returned.

Dean made a face at him before focusing on where they were going, weaving in and out of the drunk evening crowd. 

* * *

 

They were in the middle of negotiations when the alarm sounded. Reavers, here on a raid. The deal went south immediately, the clients taking off with the statue, leaving Sam and Dean with no job and no knowledge of the best way to leave.

“Tai mafan le,” Dean snarled, “c’mon, Sammy, let’s go.”

There were screams coming from the west side of town. Dean began running the opposite way, towards the shuttle. Sam stopped.

“Sam! C’mon!”

“Help them,” Sam murmured, ignoring Dean’s grasp on his arm.

“We don’t have any weapons, wo didi, and if we don’t get weapons, we’re gonna get dead quick.”

Sam finally obeyed, and they made it to the shuttle without a problem. Dean holstered his revolver, cursing the deal that had required them to come unarmed.

“Sam, you take the shuttle to Impala, grab as much ammunition as we have, and bring it back.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “No, Dean, the shadows will eat you whole.”

“Sammy.” Dean grasped the sides of his face, forcing him to look straight into his eyes. “You and I, we are not gettin’ eaten by no shadows. Now we need that ammo, and you’re the better pilot, hao ma?”

Sam’s face twisted, but he nodded, running inside the shuttle without another argument.

Dean watched Sam take off, heading east towards Impala. Just as he was about to turn back to the business at hand and kill as many reavers as possible, the shuttle dipped, turning the wrong direction and landing. Dean swore, taking off in that direction as fast as he could.

The shuttle had landed on the other side of a swiftly flowing river. Even as Dean sprinted towards in that direction, he could see Sam emerging from within, fighting at least five reavers by himself.

There was a child slumped in the dirt. The reason for Sam’s decision.

Dean reached the edge of the river, but there was no way to cross. He raised his gun, but the chance was too high—he could hit Sam. And for that matter . . . Sam was taking care of things on his own.

He knew, deep down, that Sam could handle himself, but it had been a while since Dean had seen him in action. Sam ducked and weaved, skillfully lashing out with fists and kicks, taking down all five of the vicious creatures. A wave of relief washed over him; Sam was okay.

That relief crumbled in an instant as Sam stumbled, clutching his stomach.

“Sam!”

Sam half-turned, and tripped. He was too close to the edge, and toppled into the river. Dean didn’t hesitate for a moment before diving into the frigid water. In the dusk, it was hard to see his brother. He just managed to make out his bobbing shape—Dean struck out towards him, pulling his body in close. For a few moments, they struggled, Sam still trying to swim while Dean was trying to pull him up and keep them afloat.

“Sam, stop!” he barked.

Sam slumped, frighteningly quiet and cold. Dean began pulling him to the shore.

“Say something,” he begged.

“Is she okay?”

“Who?”

“Little girl. Reavers.”

“Yeah, bud, you got ‘em all. Pretty impressive.” Dean helped Sam stumble upright, looking worriedly at the arm Sam had clenched around his middle. “How bad?”

Sam shook his head.

Dean scowled, peeling Sam’s arm back to see a wicked looking slice across Sam’s abdomen. Ever since he’d been taken, Sam’s perceptions of pain were out of whack. It just meant Dean had to be on the ball with fixing the kid up.

“Shouldn’t need a medic. Can you make it back to the shuttle or d’you wanna wait here?”

In response, Sam took a step in the shuttle’s direction—only to collapse.

“Getting the shuttle it is.” Dean looked around before dragging Sam over into some low underbrush. “Stay here. Dong ma?”

Sam’s gaze was wandering. Dean cursed and ran off, sprinting up-river to the shuttle.

The little girl was lying, dead, near the self-mutilated bodies of the reavers.

The undercarriage looked damaged from Sam’s hasty landing, but Dean was able to take off without a problem. He didn’t look back.

Dean’s heart jumped into his throat when he landed. Sam had disappeared from where he’d left him.

“Sammy!” he roared as he jumped out of the shuttle. “Ni zai nar?”

Sam didn’t answer. Dean found a trail of blood leading away, deeper into the underbrush. He charged after it—only to find Sam picking flowers.

“Sam!” He yanked his brother to his feet, barely resisting the urge to punch him in the face. “What the hell were you thinking? You can’t wander off like some xiao haizi, for once can you just act like a normal human being?”

Sam cringed under his wrath, and Dean’s anger lanced away. He sighed, more gently handling his brother, shepherding him to the shuttle. “Hold pressure on that cut,” he said.

* * *

A part of Dean itched to get back to that town, to kill the monsters that killed his mother, and later his father . . . the rest of him took Sam back to Impala, taking off and getting a safe distance away. He called the authorities and some hunters in the area to make himself feel better, but his trigger finger still itched.

“Screams of the fallen, fire ants in the head.”

Dean turned around sharply. The sedatives should’ve doped Sam up by now.

“Hey, Sammy. Can you sleep?”

Sam played with the edges of his bandages. “I can hear them in my brain. Melt it with acid, make them go away.”

Dean was exhausted, and there was only so much he could take. “Sammy, c’mon. Focus on the real world.”

Sam’s sharp eyes, reminiscent of how they’d looked during the fight with their father when he’d left for Ariel for law school, pinned Dean down. “I am always in the real world. You aren’t,” he returned.

Dean sighed. “Obviously you need more pain meds.”

“No.”

“Sam—“

“No.” Sam twisted back on his cot. “None of it helps.”

Dean’s stomach twisted. “I’m sorry for yelling at you,” he said. “I was scared.”

“I know.” Sam opened his fist, a tiny wildflower in his palm. “I get lost. Keshi wo zong neng zhao dao ni.”

Dean’s eyes suddenly burned—tears or exhaustion, he didn’t know. “Me too, mu gou.”

Sam smiled for him. A real smile. “Hun dan.”

In a moment of weakness, Dean leaned over and kissed Sam’s forehead. He covered it up by ruffling Sam’s hair so it was a mess. “Get some sleep. We’ll hit Persephone in a couple days, and we gotta make sure you’re looking better by then so Bobby doesn’t rip me a new one.”

Sam nodded, sliding down in bed a little and pulling up the covers. With the blankets to his chin and his tousled hair, he looked about five. Dean turned to climb out of Sam’s bunk.

“You can taste their intestines.”

Dean looked back, but Sam’s eyes were closed. He left Sam, trying to avoid the feeling that he was running away from his brother, and settled in the pilot’s chair.

The black of the universe had no answers.

Dean didn’t sleep that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I winged most of the chinese from my few semesters-worth in college. Probably some major mistakes in there. The one phrase I really didn't know was keshi wo zong neng zhao dao ni. So I did the terrible thing and google-translated. Bet it's entirely wrong, but what I was going for was "but I always find you." (cuz I'm a ridiculous sap).
> 
> I've toyed with doing a larger crossover for a while, but there's so much to incorporate I always get overwhelmed. Might try again for the SWbigbang this time around. Gabthevamp's prompt wanted a River-esque Sam, so I went for that, but previously all my stuff I've written Sam differently. Can't decide which I like better, but this was definitely fun to try! 
> 
> Anyway, nanowrimo hasn't been going so great--it's impossible to keep up with the word amount, now that I'm doing night shifts. So to make myself feel better, I've been working on some prompts! Hopefully I'll be able to get a few more done over the next few days. Sorry it's been taking so long guys, hope you'll stick around :)


	4. Rewind (reannablue, valdezy, Naivaraeladrin, daisy.schmitt.7)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quite a few people wanted follow-up to 12x02, so I was finally able to produce! I know there are a ton of episode fics for that one already, so I feel a little inadequate with this, but hopefully it's what you guys were looking for. So this one's for reannablue, valdezy, Naivaraeladrin, and daisy.schmitt.7 on ff.net. Not sure I quite covered each individual thing you guys wanted, but I tried to get the gist across!

There was a ringing in his ears, that hadn't stopped since he was last electrocuted. Sam gazed blearily around his dark prison, trying to decide if it was worth anymore pain. He had given up before, long ago, but that had been in an attempt to thwart the plans of Lucifer. To do so now . . . it was too close to a betrayal of what Dean would have wanted, and echoed from when Dean had first gone to hell for Sam.

The door opened, and Sam watched it from where he was sitting on the floor. Leg tight and hot with the beginnings of infection, other foot vulnerable from his burns—he was going nowhere.

"Don't move."

Sam didn't respond, staring warily at Toni as she walked down the stairs with a gun pointed at him.

"Are you done yet?" he asked after a pause.

"That depends, are you finally ready to talk?"

Sam smiled. "What do you think?"

Her calm face twisted a little. "You aren't gaining anything by resistance. You do realize that, do you not?"

"She's doing this all wrong. When I had you, I found it was best to not even worry about results. You broke much faster when you realized there was no point, that the torture would never stop."

Sam pressed a thumb into his hand, unsurprised when it didn't do anything. Lucifer chuckled from his perch near the broken mirror.

Toni tossed him a zip tie. "Hands."

"And if I don't?" he murmured.

Her smile was tight. "Well, we both know what happened last time you underestimated whether I would shoot you or not."

"And if I don't care?" Sam stared at her, letting his weariness show. "My brother is dead. You have nothing you can take away from me anymore."

Toni's face twitched.

"You should just kill her," Lucifer suggested. "And if she kills you in the process, that'll be good too. You can come home."

"The hard way," Toni said. She picked up the cattle prod again. Sam couldn't help flinching back in an attempt to avoid it, but she was quick, and pain and exhaustion had dulled Sam's reflexes. He fell to the ground at the relentless shock.

There was a shot. Sam flinched at what he expected—a new hole in his body somewhere, or death if he was lucky. Instead, there was a shout, and the cattle prod disappeared.

Out of the corner of his eye, Lucifer tsked. "You're so weak."

Sam's vision blurred. He could see Toni getting into a fist fight with someone.

He had no reason to stay present. Sam drifted away.

* * *

 

Dean's finger twitched on the trigger. Mary's quiet whisper, "Dean," stopped him from shooting the British woman.

"Watch her," he instructed his mother, handing the gun over to her.

In an instant, he was at Sam's side, hands hovering over his brother.

"What have you gotten yourself into, kid," he whispered. Sam didn't move.

"Dean, do we need to call an ambulance?"

Dean cursed silently at his decision to tell Cas to take another lead, but shook his head. "Call Cas, see if he'll show." He turned his attention back to Sam. "Hey, Sammy. Wanna wake up, man?" Dean patted his brother's cheek, shaking him a little before resigning himself, and grinding his knuckles into Sam's sternum.

Sam whimpered a little, eyes barely cracking open.

"That's it, Sammy," Dean encouraged. "C'mon."

Sam's brief moment of consciousness was over. Dean sighed, checking pulse and expertly assessing Sam's injuries. Malnutrition, dehydration, bullet to his leg, bruising, a burned foot, and some red marks from the cattle prod. Probably the beginnings of infection, to boot. Sam's pulse was fast, as expected, but he seemed to be stable.

"Tie her up," Dean instructed his mom. "I've got Sam."

He pulled Sam's torso up, so that Sam was slumped against his chest. Sam groaned a little, the movement rousing him.

"That's it. Can you help me, bud? You're too big for me to carry bridal style, right?"

Sam didn't seem to know what was going on, but he was awake enough that when Dean lifted him up, he kept his spine straight enough that they didn't topple over again. Dean winced at the way Sam couldn't even support his own weight from the pain in his leg and foot.

"That's it, Sam, slow and steady. You've got this." They walked together towards the staircase, Mary hovering uncertainly nearby.

They passed by the woman who had kidnapped Sam. Dean couldn't shoot her. But he could kick her in the ribs, getting a satisfying yelp out of her.

"You'll get worse if you come after us again," he growled.

It was slow work, getting Sam up the stairs. Dean's shoulder was aching by the time they made it out into daylight.

"Passenger door," he panted to Mary. She hesitated.

"Shouldn't he go in the back?"

Dean knew she was right, but couldn't help the shake of his head. It was selfish, but he needed Sam next to him.

"Easy," he whispered, lowering Sam into his rightful place. Sam's eyes were closed tight from pain, and Dean brushed a quick hand over the side of his brother's face. "You're going to be okay," he promised him. If it weren't for his baby's paint job—and the chance that he would topple over and take longer in the process—Dean would've slid over the hood of the Impala in his rush to get to the driver's side. As it was, it was only seconds before they were on the road.

"No answer from Castiel," Mary reported.

Dean swore under his breath, one hand on the wheel, one hand simultaneously propping Sam up and taking his pulse.

"Motel," he said, following the signs. He'd prefer to get farther away, but Sam needed care right now, and he couldn't waste any more time.

"Hold on, Sammy," he murmured. "Don't you die on me."

* * *

 

"Company. Really? I mean, we both know you're crazy, but this is taking it a bit far," Lucifer complained.

Sam blinked his eyes open, blurry vision slowly coming to focus on both Dean and his mother. This was new.

"Sammy? You with us?"

He didn't bother answering his hallucinations. He categorized his hurts. He'd been patched up, enough that he could move.

"Sam?"

Sam swung his legs out of bed. His foot was still raw and extremely painful, but he would at least be able to get to a car to hotwire it.

"Whoa!" Dean lunged forward, pressing Sam's shoulders back. Sam blinked. He must've really lost it, this time. Still, he was weak enough to take comfort in Dean's presence, however momentary. "Where do you think you're going, huh?"

Sam shook his head, unwilling to argue with himself over logical plans of action. That would give him a headache. And why not play along. It was better than facing reality.

"Easy," Dean soothed. "Cas will be here soon—or he better be."

Sam blinked, unable to understand what his hallucination was telling him.

"Play along," Lucifer urged him. "Or Dean will get angry with you."

Sam cleared his throat. "How—"

"Guess Amara stepped in. Mom was kind of a . . . thank you present." Dean glanced over at Mary. "You wanna—"

His mom came forward. Sam hadn't seen her since the panic room, the first time around. Had Toni fed him demon blood?

"Hey, sweetie," she said hesitantly. "I, uh, know you must be in shock."

"How much do you know?" Sam asked her.

She looked at his brother. "Not much. Dean caught me up a little. That you two are still hunting. All of that."

So she didn't know, yet. All that Sam had done. Lucifer had always liked to play the game of having loved ones—Jess, Dad, Mom—show up, and find out what he had become. And then they'd leave.

"You seem a little out of it," Dean said. "Did they drug you?"

Sam nodded, swaying as he did so. He was gently pressed back into the bed. It smelled bleached and musty, like every other motel bed he'd ever slept on.

"Why did she take you? What did she want?"

Sam knew this game. "Screw you," he murmured, letting himself slide towards unconsciousness. Before he fell asleep, he heard Dean's baffled, "what?"

* * *

 

"What's going on here, Dean?" Mary asked. She looked freaked, and Dean didn't blame her. "Is Sam . . . is he always like that?"

Dean twitched, feeling helpless and hating it. "No, he must be off from whatever drugs they fed him. I'm sure it'll pass." He glanced around the room. "Where is that frickin' angel?"

Sam muttered something. It sounded Enochian. Dean swallowed, suddenly uncomfortable with their vulnerable position. They'd already been at the motel for half a day, and the longer they were here, the more likely someone would find them. Shaking Sam's shoulder a little, he woke him up again. "Hey, Sammy. Nap time's over. We should get back to the bunker, those British Men of Letters might still come after us."

Sam blinked, eyes murky with exhaustion. His gaze slid to the left, and Dean slid an arm behind his shoulders.

"Dean, are you sure that's a good idea?" Mary asked.

"Best I can do right now."

Sam whimpered as Dean helped him up. The sound ground into Dean's brain; he tried to take as much of his brother's weight as he could.

"How much does it hurt?" he murmured, thankful that Mary had moved on to the car. "C'mon, don't lie to me."

Sam shrugged.

"Bull," Dean muttered, but he didn't have time to get into it with Sam. It felt like years later they finally made it to the bunker. Cas was standing there, waiting for them.

"Where have you been?" Dean snarled. "We've been calling you for hours, and you just—"

"I was waylaid. Let me make up for it." Cas reached towards Sam.

Sam shoved out of Dean's support, away from Cas. Dean barely had time to say a shocked, "Sam—" before Sam was plastered against the wall, hands out defensively.

"Sammy," Dean said slowly. "Sam, it's just Cas. C'mon, you like Cas, remember? You two are besties, right?"

Sam's eyes were blank with incomprehension. He didn't move away when Cas approached him again, though. Dean could see him shaking.

When Cas pulled back, Sam's hurts were healed . . . except for his foot. Dean blinked, and then glared.

"What the hell, Cas?"

"They . . . they used holy oil. To burn him, I can't . . . I can't help."

Dean swore softly.

"Can I do anything to help?" Mary asked. There was something desperate in her voice.

"Sorry, Mom, I'm not sure Sam will be able to handle it right now. Um, look, if you wanna maybe make some soup for him? That'd help?" he suggested awkwardly.

His mother nodded firmly. "Point me towards the kitchen."

"Cas?" The angel guided his mother away, leaving Dean with Sam.

"Why don't we get you to bed?" Dean asked.

Sam still wouldn't answer him properly. Dean leaned in close, not missing the flinch when he reached out and curled a hand around Sam's neck.

"Hey, dude, you can relax now, okay? You're safe. I'm here."

Sam's deadened gaze met his. "Are you?"

Thrown, Dean tried to figure out how to respond. "What do you mean? Of course I'm right here."

Sam shook his head, closing his eyes and blocking Dean out again. He growled a little in frustration, pulling Sam up from his slump against the wall.

"You figure out the existential crap, but do that while you're lying down. That burn . . . I mean, we might wanna take you to the hospital for it, if Cas can't heal you."

Sam merely shook his head, limping along with Dean's assistance.

* * *

 

"This is a long time to play along. I'm impressed, Sam," Lucifer said. Half of Sam's room was covered in ice, slowly creeping towards Sam. "I mean, by now you would've given up with me. This Toni chick, what do you think, new true love?"

Sam didn't bother responding. The ice reached his toes.

"Oh, Sammy, you should come home. You know the longer you stay with these imitations, the worst the outcome will be. You're all alone in this world. Everyone you've ever loved, they've burned, because of you."

Sam shivered.

"Maybe it should be your turn."

Lucifer snapped his fingers, and everything was on fire.

Sam screamed, writhing in pain.

"Sam! Sammy, wake up, come on!"

The fire receded, and Sam could see Dean's green eyes staring at him, wide with fear. "Dean?" he mumbled.

"Yeah, Sammy. Focus. You were just dreaming."

"Sure." Sam's relief faded away as he remembered the hallucination would disappear soon. "Dreaming."

"What's up, Sammy. Did that chick really get to you that bad?"

Sam snorted. "Toni's nothing. She can play as many mind games as she wants, but I won't break." He glanced to Lucifer. "She should see what Lucifer can do."

Dean froze. "Sam, are you saying . . . hey there, focus on me. Look at me. This is real. I swear."

Sam didn't look at him.

Suddenly Dean's hand was wrapped around his, finger pressing lightly into his palm. "You remember this. You know, Sammy. After everything we've been through, you can tell the difference. I know the drugs and the pain are screwing you up, but I swear to you on . . . on the Impala, this is real."

Sam took a shuddering breath, surprised to find his cheeks wet. "I can't lose you again," he whispered, "I can't, Dean, I'll break, and—"

"Shh." Dean kept his hand firm on Sam's. "You're okay."

Sam pressed his face into Dean's shoulder. "So Mom's really—"

"Yeah. Big surprise, right?"

Sam nodded a little, feeling his tears soak into Dean's shirt. "I, uh, you've gotta be happy, right?"

"I suppose, yeah." Dean hesitated. "I mean, it's weird. But good. You know how it is."

Lucifer laughed. "Aren't you two adorable."

"Dean," Sam whispered. "I, uh, I . . ."

"Hey, you wanna come to my room? Boot up some Netflix, binge on something? You kept talking about that Daredevil series, right?"

Sam nodded. Dean wrapped an arm around his shoulder, guiding Sam across the hall. He tried to feel like he was older than five years old, but it was difficult.

Lucifer's laugh was left in Sam's room.

Just as they'd settled in, Mary poked her head through the door.

"I made hot cocoa," she said. Her smile was a little forced; Sam ducked his head, feeling guilty and wrong, and not sure why.

"Thanks, Mom."

A cup of warm cocoa was placed into his shaking hands. Sam briefly felt Mary's hand brush his head before she retreated.

"Thanks," he whispered.

Cas peeked inside the room. "You need anything, Sam?"

Sam couldn't decide whether he was embarrassed or grateful or what. He could feel himself flushing, and ducked down behind his hot cocoa.

"We're good, guys, thanks," Dean saved him. "Goodnight."

By increments, Sam slowly relaxed. Dean ruffled Sam's hair. "You okay, Sammy?"

"Getting there," he said softly. "I'm getting there."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for being such a HUGE sap. I couldn't help it, after that episode I wanted everyone to hug Sam and never let him go.
> 
> Night shift has been kicking my butt; nanowrimo is officially on hiatus, it was making me too stressed to see the word count get more and more unattainable. So I have turned to my fail safe, fic writing.
> 
> I did receive the comment that I'm going too fast, and making a lot of mistakes . . . I mean, look, with these prompts, I'm not looking to put out my very very best work. I'm sorry if that's what you guys were expecting, but for me, this is a chance to 1: give back to you guys and 2: to stretch my fic writing abilities after a long being unused. So it comes down to:A) I continue on as I am currently doing, and work my way through the prompts in a timely manner but without a lot of detail paid to editing, or B) I spend weeks on each prompt, and it'll probably be before next year that anything is posted.
> 
> So yeah, I'm going with A. I'm sorry if that's not good enough, or not up to the standards I've produced in the past, but at this stage in my life, it's the best I'm going to do.


	5. Drilling Gravestones (sd_scoobydoo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gotta love a concussed Sam. Only this one ended up with angst. And a little Dean-heavy since it's from his POV. And set in season 4. Ah well. Hope you like it, sd_scoobydoo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of prompts to go! It's been interesting, trying to go in so many directions. The key for me is not getting distracted by another while I'm working on one! There are so many good ones :) Concussed Sam for sd_scoobydoo, without further ado.

"Sam, are we done here? Sam?"

Dean glanced around, the flames still merrily rising from the coffin. "Sam?" He heard his brother grunt, rising from an awkward position. "Did she toss you?"

"She wasn't so much with the quietly into the night," Sam muttered, rubbing a little at the side of his head.

"Yeah, well, you get buried alive, you tend to hold some grudges." Dean kept his eyes averted from the burning corpse. He had started to get more wary, expecting to get flashes of memories from hell no matter what he saw.

"I'll fill in the grave," Sam said.

Dean blinked at him. "You dug it up. Rules are I fill it in."

Sam picked up the shovel. "Your hand's still bothering you from the last hunt."

Dean hesitated a little, noticing the ginger way Sam was moving, but if the strongest hunter on earth over there thought Dean was too weak, as he'd said, then he could just take on the brunt of the work.

"Fine," he said, feeling discomfited and hating it. "Wouldn't want to get in the way of your hunting habits."

Sam flinched. Dean tried to shove down his feelings—it wasn't his fault Sam had adjusted so very very well to being without a brother—but the remnants of the big brother in him regretted his quick tongue.

The night was muggy, and even watching Sam, Dean felt hot and sweaty. To make up for his antagonism, he offered, "you wanna go out to the lake tomorrow?"

Sam's shoveling stuttered. "Uh, I need to do some . . . some research."

Dean's attempt to be benevolent in the face of Sam's betrayals burned away into ash. He scowled. "Research," he drawled, "sure."

His brother didn't respond, shovel rhythmically tossing dirt back into the grave. Dean muttered a few curses under his breath and turned away, heading back to the Impala.

A good twenty minutes later, Sam joined him, sliding into the passenger seat.

"Took you long enough," Dean groused.

Sam didn't rise to the bait, remaining silent and leaning against the door as Dean pulled onto the backroad. If Sam wanted to throw another hissy fit, Dean would let him.

* * *

"I'm going to get a drink. Wanna come with?" Dean had to force out the invitation, waiting with one hand on the doorknob.

Sam murmured, "no, thanks, got a . . . got a headache."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "A headache, or a call from your demon?"

"Headache."

A meek Sam was a suspicious Sam, now. Dean pressed his lips together, torn between staying to make sure Sam didn't do something stupid, or going to drink himself stupid.

"M'gonna sleep." Sam's voice was barely audible. As Dean watched, his little brother rolled sloppily into his bed, boots on and everything. Before hell, Dean would've gone over, taken Sam's boots off and tucked him in.

He wasn't the same person anymore.

And neither was Sam.

"Don't wait up," he muttered, and was out the door.

* * *

Dean made a face, prying open his gummy eyes. The acrid smell of vomit filled the air. He must've hurled before passing out.

"S'm? Y'up?"

Sam mumbled something indistinct from his own bed. Apparently the great hunter had skipped his morning run for once.

Dean levered himself upward, teetering on the edge of collapsing on his face and passing out again. The disgusting smell finally forced him to his feet. He looked around, trying to find the vomit so he wouldn't step in it, but it was nowhere near his bed.

"Please, not the duffels," he muttered. The smell would never get out, and he would never hear the end of it from Sam.

Sam hadn't moved. Dean leaned over, slapping his foot. "Yo. Sam, time to get a move on."

Again, Sam didn't move. Dean stepped up to the head of the bed, rearing back at the bitter smell. Unless he had vomited on Sam—and Sam really would kill him then—Sam had thrown up.

"Did you get smashed last night too?" There was a pool of vomit by Sam's face. Dean made a face. "That's nasty, man."

Sam groaned, features twisting in a pained grimace. He started gagging a little; Dean heaved him up so he wouldn't choke on the vomit.

"Geez, Sam, what's the matter with you?"

Sam's eyes slitted open. Dean had barely any warning before Sam was seizing in his arms. They fell together, an ungainly, jerking thing onto the ground. Dean's mind went blank as he tried to remember what to do in case of seizures. Finally he simply propped Sam up on his side to avoid asphyxiation and held on with one hand.

With the other, he called 911.

* * *

"You're Sam's brother, yes?"

Dean startled, looking up at an older man. "What?"

"I met you briefly in the ER. I'm Dr. Tam, the neurologist here." The doctor sat down in the chair next to Dean. "I know it was all a shock, and it can be confusing to hear all of this; please feel free to ask me to repeat myself, slow down, whatever you need."

"You've obviously gone through some bogus sympathy training, so let me cut you short," Dean said. "Tell me straight up how my brother is, what happened, and what caused this?"

A little taken aback, the doctor cleared his throat. "Well, your brother suffered from some kind of blow to the head—this caused a mild concussion, and also what we call a subdural hematoma. A bleed in the brain."

Dean's own brain froze at the doctor's words. "A brain bleed?"

Dr. Tam nodded. "It looks like it was a slower bleed. Sometimes they can take weeks to manifest, but in your brother's case, it was severe enough to effect him to cause the seizures this early."

Dean clasped his hands together. "So what are you doing . . . to, uh, treat it?"

"We diagnosed your brother with an MRI. After that, we needed to relieve the pressure on his brain, so he now has a drain in place to remove the extra blood compressing it."

"He has a tube going into his head?" Dean's mouth filled with saliva. The doc preemptively pulled over a nearby trashcan, just in time for Dean to hurl the remains of last night's alcohol. Once he was finished, he raised his eyes to the neurologist.

"Can I see him?"

"Yes, of course. He's heavily sedated, but he should be coming out of anesthesia soon."

* * *

For all of Dean's unwillingness to see Sam as his own man, as the hunter he'd become, it was impossible to ignore how strong and tough his little brother was, especially when he'd come back from hell.

All of that was stripped away now.

Sam's face looked pale and sharp, pale green hospital gown strange compared to all of the dark colors he usually wore.

"What happened?"

Dean jumped at the female voice of a nurse. He turned . . . to see her eyes slide to black.

He had the demon-killing knife out, and was lunging towards her when she sighed, putting a hand on her hip.

"Really, Dean? We've done this dance before."

"Ruby," he hissed.

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, shortbus. Now tell me what happened?"

"Screw you. Why don't you get out of one of the people keeping Sam alive, huh?"

"Then why don't you tell me how he's barely alive in the first place? I wasn't the one with him on whatever dumb hunt it was this time."

Guilt flashed through Dean, but he suppressed it with a growl. "He hit his head, and I didn't know."

"Great. I keep him alive for all this time, and you get him killed," Ruby said.

Dean had no defense except offense. "Like you've been really keeping him alive? You've probably gotten him closer to death than I ever have."

Ruby snorted. "You're so delusional, it's kind of sad." She approached the bed, ignoring Dean's snarl. "Sam had an army of demons after him. I gave him the tools to save himself, and actually saved him more times than I can count. Or have you ever rescued your brother from ten demons armed with guns while he was unconscious?"

Dean opened his mouth to retort when there was a low moan from the bed next to them. Instantly, all of his attention was on Sam.

"D'n?" was Sam's first word.

"Hey, Sam, I'm here." He hovered next to the bed, hands awkwardly brushing over Sam's hair before noticing the bald spot, with a tube coming out of the middle of it. Finally he gripped Sam's shoulder and the side of his jaw to keep him from moving his head. "Breathe, nice and easy."

"Wha—" Sam's eyes were slits, unable to focus on Dean. "Wha-wha ha-appen?"

"You took a knock on your head, Sam, and now you're in the hospital."

Sam's brow furrowed in confusion, maybe pain. Dean's gut clenched.

"Sam," Ruby said softly, ignoring Dean's glare. "How are you feeling?"

Sam looked even more confused. "Ruby?"

His hand drifted up to his head, and Dean caught it. "Don't touch, man."

Sam's eyes shut, and he was unconscious again.

* * *

A crick in his neck and an ache in his lower back; Dean woke up in the uncomfortable hospital chair with a groan. He looked around the dark room to find Sam sitting up, one leg out of the bed.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked.

"G'ta keep moving," Sam slurred. He started tugging his other leg forward.

"You just had surgery on your skull, dude, I don't think you're going anywhere."

"Gotta get D'n outta hell, Ruby," he replied. "Can't stop."

Dean's blood ran cold. "Sam. I'm out of hell."

"Can hear him . . . screaming," Sam continued, ignoring Dean's words. Without warning, he finished the motion and was standing. He collapsed a second later, Dean only able to half-catch his upper body to keep him from another head injury.

"Sam." He hesitated. "Sammy."

At the affectionate nickname, Sam's head bobbed up to meet Dean's gaze. "Dean?"

"Yeah."

Sam's eyes filled with tears. "How?"

"If you have amnesia, this is going to take a long time," Dean said.

Sam's eyes weren't quite able to focus. Dean collected Sam a little more firmly against him, cupping his neck so his head wouldn't fall back. He could remember doing the same when Sam was a baby. The past weeks of lies and anger faded away.

"You're okay," he said.

* * *

"Sam isn't okay."

Dean stared down the doctor, mentally stabbing him. Multiple times.

Dr. Tam cleared his throat. "Look, you both seem to be under the impression that Sam can walk out of here tomorrow. The drain may be removed, but Sam went through a traumatic brain injury. Thankfully there don't seem to be any lasting issues in memory or speech, but there are signs of some minor setbacks in muscle coordination. You'll definitely need physical therapy. Not to mention the anti-seizure medication regimen."

Sam frowned. "But I haven't had any seizures."

"You did before being brought here," Dr. Tam pointed out, "and being on the regimen will keep you from having another one; the damage could be more fatal from it."

"Fine," Dean said impatiently, "but a lot of that can be done outside the hospital."

"True. I do want you to be careful before you decide to leave," the doctor said. Apropos of nothing, he added, "Sam, did you play football?"

Sam blinked. "What? Why?"

"The MRI revealed old trauma. I hate to tell you this, but with your history, it looks like you might need to be very careful in the future. Another blow to the head could have fatal consequences."

The blood drained from Sam's face. Dean felt his heart skip a beat and he took a protective step towards the bed. "Is that all the bad news, or do you want to tell us that Sam has three months to live?"

The doctor looked abashed. "I am sorry. Please let me know if there's anything I can do."

* * *

Dean ran into Ruby as he was leaving Sam's room to find the bathroom. He crossed his arms.

"What do you want?"

"I can get Sam back to fighting fit," she said. "I suggest you let me pass."

"How do I know you won't kill him while he's weak?"

She sneered. "You didn't care about that when you left him for four months."

"Don't you dare," Dean hissed.

"You want your brother to suffer through months of physical therapy? Vulnerable to any of Lilith's demons?"

Dean grit his teeth, and stepped aside. "Fine."

She emerged ten minutes later. "Don't say I haven't done anything for you," she said with a smile, and she was gone before Dean could respond.

He went back in Sam's room. Sam was sitting up, easily putting on his clothes.

"Privacy, much?" Sam said mildly.

Dean opened his mouth to ask what Ruby had done, but had second thoughts and bit the question back. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine." Sam had fixed his hair so that at least most of it covered up the shaved and bandaged portion.

Dean swallowed. "What about what the doctor said? The multiple concussions."

Sam threw him a look. "That applies to both of us, Dean. Comes with the job."

Dean shrugged uncomfortably. "Did you know you had a concussion?"

"I suppose." Sam finished pulling his jeans on and stood.

"And you didn't say anything?"

Sam wouldn't meet his eyes. "Like you've always mentioned when you're hurt."

"Yeah, well . . ."

"We should head over to Bobby's, I think he's got some info for us."

Dean was silent, watching as Sam took control again, hunter incarnate. "Yeah," he said. "Let's go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You ever get annoyed at some things on TV being unrealistic? One of those for me is all those knocks on the head--being knocked out right and left and la di da going on your merry way. Head injuries are nothing to mess with! So this is my attempt to address that ;) 
> 
> On and on we go! Lots more to write. I won't be going home for thanksgiving (new nurses get the BEST shifts lol) so I will probably end up hanging out and hopefully writing a little more. 
> 
> Could use some prayers going into this friday, it's my first shift off orientation (ahhh!)
> 
> Thanks for reading, as always. <3


	6. Halfling (Miranda Panda-chan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fey!Sam for Miranda Panda-chan on ff.net. Enjoy!

Melan ran over the grass. It was a cool, grey sort of day—his favorite. The faint sounds of the man he had been following came from ahead. Melan skipped over, crouching in the trees. He had been watching the man for a few days. He seemed to be relentlessly pursuing something, but Melan couldn’t tell what it was, and it made him crazy with curiosity.

The man paused. Melan waited, holding his breath.

With a roar, a huge creature—bear-like, but somehow not—burst out of a copse of trees ahead of the two of them. The man instantly whipped out a type of weapon and a blast went off.

The bear was unfazed, forcing the man to duck and roll. Melan stood, feeling his heart thump unnaturally underneath his chest. He didn’t even know he had a pulse.

“Sonuva—“ the man cursed as his weapon was swept out of his hands by the bear. He stumbled back, tripping. Without thinking, Melan darted forward, getting in-between the man and monster. He tied the creature with a spell of weakening, but it didn’t work fast enough.

A huge paw slammed into him, sending him sprawling. Melan felt his glamours fade, leaving him vulnerable to the human world. There was blood coating his hands, and he stared at it uncomprehendingly.

“Kid!” The man was standing over him, fading in and out of focus. “Where did you—“

Melan passed out. 

* * *

 

There was a human in front of him. Melan shoved backwards, scrambling on some kind of strange soft surface. The man backed up, hands held aloft.

“Easy, kid, don’t move. You have some pretty nasty wounds there.”

Melan licked his dry lips. Eyes darting around the room, he tried to find an escape.

“What’s your name?”

Names had power. Melan shook his head, staying back.

“That’s fine. Well, I’m Dean, and somehow you saved my butt, so I thought I’d return the favor.” Dean slowly reached over to the nightstand and snagged a cup of water. He held it out to Melan.

Melan swallowed, but refused to reach for it.

“Alright.” Dean took a sip of the water, and then held it out. “Normal water, dude.”

Melan snatched it from him, the quick movement sending a burning pain through his abdomen. He groaned, pressing a hand to his stomach.

“Easy.” Dean had moved forward without him seeing, but Melan didn’t have the energy to escape. The human cupped Melan’s neck to keep him from tipping over, peeling Melan’s hand away from his wounds. “Lemme see.”

Melan trembled under the man’s hands. He was shushed, absently, as the bandages were peeled back.

“You haven’t busted any stitches, that’s good. We might need to worry about infection,” he murmured. Melan shuddered as the bandages were pressed back into place.

“Are you going to eat me?”

The man jumped. “What? What kind of question is that? No, no way. You’re crazy.”

Melan watched him warily. The man sighed.

“I don’t know what you are, or what you did, but I owe you one, kid. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Exhaustion was pulling his eyelids down. Melan carefully edged himself down onto the soft thing. He stiffened when a gentle hand brushed across his forehead. The hand suddenly stopped, pushing aside some of his hair.

“I know that scar . . . kid. Kid, open your eyes.”

The urgency in the man’s voice was terrifying enough that Melan dragged his eyelids up, flinching back.

Dean looked desperate. “What’s your name?” he asked.

Melan kept quiet.

“Sammy?”

The name made Melan’s head hurt. He didn’t understand why, and whimpered.

Dean cursed, gathering Melan up. He struggled, kicking out weakly, but the motion only tugged at his stitches and made everything ache.

“Shhh, I won’t hurt you,” Dean said. “I just need to see . . .”

Melan felt his hair lifted up at the nape of his neck. He tensed, waiting for a bite or a blow of some kind.

“Sammy,” the man breathed. Melan was pulled close to him, in a clutching embrace that nearly hurt.

“Don’t hurt me,” he whispered.

“I would never, ever hurt you.” Dean sniffed wetly. “You’re my brother.” 

* * *

 

Melan felt the painful pull of Queen Mab’s summons. He got up, holding a careful hand over his stomach.

The man—Dean—instantly rolled over on his bed, sitting up and staring at him.

“Where are you going?”

Melan bit his lip. “I have to go. My queen is summoning me.”

Dean’s face turned thunderous. “That fairy bitch isn’t getting you again. She’s had you for almost fourteen years, and kept you a child. I’m not giving you back.”

Melan whined as the pain became too much. “She’s calling,” he hissed through his teeth.

Dean swore, taking out some kind of square device and touching it a lot. Melan’s curiosity overcame the pain, and he tilted his head.

“What’s that?”

Dean looked up at him. “It’s a phone, Sammy. I’m gonna call in some back-up here.”

Queen Mab was becoming insistent. He made a fist, the blankets catching on fire. Dean didn’t notice until he finished talking on the phone, yelping as he turned around.

“What the—Sam!” Dean beat out the fire. “Okay, sit still, I’ve got a quick spell to sever the hold on you.”

The man took a large step towards him, and Melan flinched back.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said. “I promise, Sammy.”

Melan didn’t know why he trusted Dean, but somehow he did. He allowed the man to take his hand, and chant a few words over him, scattering strange smelling herbs.

With a snap, the pull was gone. Sam blinked. “I . . . I remember being Sam,” he said. He looked up at the man. “You’re . . . you’re my brother? You’re so big though.”

Dean’s face split into a grin. “Well, it’s been fourteen years, kiddo. You still look like you’re about six.”

Sam shook his head. “Everything’s fuzzy,” he murmured. “It doesn’t feel real.”

“How ‘bout we figure it out a little piece at a time?” Dean brushed a hand through Sam’s long hair. “You kinda look like a girl, dude. Want a haircut?”

“Okay.” 

* * *

 

It was a wary dance. Sam had vague memories of a childhood spent running around motel rooms with another little boy, a picture which was hard to reconcile with the man who claimed to be that little boy.

All of his instincts were wrong, to make it worse. Sam had healed quickly—courtesy of the fairy now in his blood—and they had ventured out in public together.

Sam had automatically pick pocketed every person they’d passed, only to have Dean, appalled, turn his loot into the local police’s lost and found.

“Why don’t we just sit down to eat?” Dean suggested tiredly. Sam slunk behind him, feeling out of place and weird wearing human clothes again.

He stared blankly at the piece of paper with writing on it. Dean cleared his throat, taking it back from him. “How ‘bout I just get you some pancakes and bacon, huh?”

The food came, and the sweet smell of syrup and warm bread rose up. Sam dove in, shoveling it down.

“Well, I guess you were hungry,” Dean murmured, picking at his own food. “Eat your bacon.”

Sam looked askance at the meat. He tried to nibble at it for Dean’s sake, but gagged a little and spat it out.

“Right. No meat. Got it.” Dean snagged the bacon and popped it into his mouth. 

* * *

 

Sam froze, and Dean ran into him.

“Sam? What is it, what’s wrong?”

“I remember Dad,” Sam said, dazedly. “I remember . . .

“Me?” Dean asked hopefully.

Sam winced, looking away. “No, sorry.”

“That’s okay.” Dean’s face was a little closed off. “You know, we need to call Dad and let him know. I was kinda waiting to be sure.”

Sam remembered gruffness and intensity, and he shivered a little. “Okay,” he muttered.

His gloomy mood couldn’t last long under bright sun. Back in the Seelie court, days like today were spent in play, creating mischief. He grinned at Dean.

“Wanna see something fun?” he asked.

Dean didn’t have any time to object. Sam wove a little glamour together, disappearing and reappearing on top of a roadsign. He switched it with its neighbor, making it so that the highway signs for Seattle and Portland were switched. He flicked over to Dean again, grinning up at him.

“Good, right?”

His arms were seized, and he was dragged into the nearby alley.

“What were you thinking?” Dean hissed. “What if someone had seen you? It’s light out, and anyone could have noticed what you were doing!”

Sam scoffed a little. “C’mon, I was quick. No one would have noticed.”

“You don’t know that.” Dean glanced around. “Look, no more of that, you have to stop using whatever weird fairy magic you got from being taken.”

Sam frowned. “How can I stop? It’s part of me.”

Dean’s face was serious. “Sam, the people I work with . . . hunters. They would see you as a threat, and kill you.”

“I’ll . . . I’ll stop,” Sam whispered.

Dean’s expression softened, and he ran a gentle hand through Sam’s hair. “I’m sorry, kid. I know you didn’t ask for any of this to happen. I just want to keep you safe, okay?” 

* * *

 

“Dad, here’s Sammy.”

Sam clung a little to the edge of Dean’s jacket, peering up at their father. His vague memories weren’t enough to make him comfortable with the man.

“Sam?” Their father knelt, hand reaching out. “Is it really him? Not some glamour?”

“I checked,” Dean murmured above Sam.

Sam let himself be propelled over. Their father wasn’t gentle like Dean, strong hands manhandling him and almost examining him.

“You got here pretty quickly,” Dean commented.

John said, “there’s a hunt a town over. Group of hunters gearing up for a large werewolf hunt. We could use you.”

Sam was released, and he retreated over to Dean. His brother curled a careful hand over his shoulder.

“I can’t. Sam—“

“I see.” John stood.

“We could go,” Sam whispered. When two sharp gazes turned on him, he took a couple steps back to be safe. “I, uh, I know things are different, but I remember staying back when you left for hunts. That’d be easy enough. Especially if I get to play with Dean’s phone.”

Dean smiled a little. “You sure, Sammy?”

Sam nodded. 

* * *

 

“—just saying, you could act like you’ve finally gotten your son back after 14 years, rather than ignoring him.”

“Dean, I’m finding it hard to believe that’s actually Sam. Maybe I’ll be able to process in a little while, but right now I have to focus on this hunt.”

“Fine, but—“

Sam had heard enough, and opened the door to the motel room. “Ice,” he announced. Dean had finally relented in letting him have a couple minutes to leave the room, but even so, sagged in relief at the sight of Sam.

“We are going to leave in a few minutes for the hunt. You okay?” John asked.

Sam nodded, trying to stand tall.

Dean beckoned Sam over to the bed. He hopped onto the edge, waiting as his brother knelt in front of him.

“Okay, Sammy. So, I kind of hate this, if you can’t tell. Last time I left you alone, you were gone for fourteen years, y’know? So I need you to promise me you’re going to be sitting here, bored out of your skull, safe and sound, okay?”

Sam nodded solemnly. Dean pressed a phone into his hand. “Is this yours?” Sam asked.

“Nope. All yours, kiddo. You press this button and this one, and it’ll call me, straight away. I’ll come straight for you. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“And this.” Dean hesitated, and then looped something on a string around Sam’s head. “It’s a charm, see? To keep you safe.”

Sam looked down at the strange bronze head. “Okay.”

“Dean.” John had hefted the duffels over his back. “Let’s do this.”

Dean’s eyes were intensely green as he stared at Sam for a moment longer. “Be safe, bitch,” he whispered.

“Jerk,” Sam returned, almost instinctually.

Dean gasped, and then covered it up with a shake of the head. “I’ve missed you.” He pressed a kiss to Sam’s forehead. “I’ll be back.” 

* * *

 

The first hour, Sam messed around with his new phone. The second hour, he worked on the primer Dean had gotten him, with the basics of writing. The third hour, he became absorbed with a strange show on television about birds.

He was so distracted, he wasn’t ready when the door was broken down. A net of iron was cast over him, burning against his skin. Sam screamed, writhing, but he was shackled with iron where he lay, and dragged from the room. Sam tried to use the phone still in his hands; he hit the two buttons Dean had shown him, but a blow to the head and he was gone. 

* * *

 

“The seelie brat is waking up.”

John’s voice was frigid. “This should wake him up.”

Cold water splashed over Sam’s head. He gasped, looking around wildly.

“Dean? Dean?”

His eyes found his brother in the corner of the dark room, shackled to a pipe running up the wall.

He then found John. “Wha—“

“Don’t talk, scum,” one of the other men said. “We know what you are.”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t—“

He cried out as the hunter pressed a blade of iron against his bare arm.

“Enough,” John said, leaning forward. “Fey. We have kept you alive because you are going to tell us what your kind is planning.”

“Planning?” Sam was bewildered. “I—the queen isn’t planning anything.”

One hunter with a large beard snorted. “Convincing little thing, isn’t he?”

There was a groan from across the room. Dean was waking up.

“I wasn’t planning anything,” Sam said. “I promise, I swear. You can ask Dean, I didn’t do anything to him.”

“Sam?” Dean was dazedly shaking his head. “Wha—Dad! What are you doing? Let us go!”

“That isn’t your brother, Dean, and you’ll see that once we’re through,” John said grimly. He approached Sam again, this time hefting iron himself. Sam shivered. “Tell the truth, fey.”

Sam cried out at the pain. His arms had two bright red marks from the iron when John backed off.

There was a loud click. Sam slowly lifted his head to find Dean pointing a gun at the hunters.

“Back off or I will kill all of you,” Dean snarled.

“Dean, you need to think straight. This isn’t Sam, Sam died long ago when that tree was glamoured to look like him,” John said.

“That is Sam. Back off before I shoot you.”

One of the hunters jerked towards Dean in an attempt to take away the gun. Dean shot him in the knee, pointing the gun at the head of the other hunter. “Your turn?”

The man paled, backing up.

“Leave.”

“Dean—“

“Dad, I swear, I will shoot you.”

“This isn’t over,” John promised.

Dean bared his teeth, and they all left. Sam shuddered, letting his head fall again.

“Hey, hey, hey, don’t check out on me now, Sammy. You’ll be okay, we’ll get you patched up in no time.” The shackles were released, leaving his wrists and ankles raw and red from the iron. Sam felt Dean collect him into his arms, and he dropped his head on his brother’s shoulder.

“Not . . . not a trick,” he slurred. “I remember you, Dean.”

“I know.” Dean pressed him close. “It’s you and me against the world, right?”

“Yeah.” Sam sighed. “Can I pass out now?”

“Go for it. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Sam fell asleep, praying that was true. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for making John a little too mean. If this weren't a prompt fic, this story would go on to have Dean and Sam adjusting, on the run together, and eventually convincing John that it was really Sam, cue tearful reunion etc etc.
> 
> This was really a prompt that deserved a couple chapters, but gotta do whatcha gotta do! Hope this still works. Thanks for reading :)


	7. Scars Remain (Hacked It Out and Fell)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who doesn't like a permanent injury fic? Hacked It Out and Fell wanted a permanent limp due to something Dean did indirectly, so this is what I went for! Thanks for reading :)

Sam examined the obstacle. A bit of a challenge. Potential for a mishap and injury if done incorrectly.

He approached the stairs and carefully went up each one. Without a banister, it was difficult to maintain his balance.

“Sam?”

He was out of breath. Sam focused on finishing the last few stairs before looking up at Dean. “Yeah?” he huffed.

Dean’s face was unreadable. “I was gonna run and grab us dinner. You feel like pizza?”

“Sure.” Sam finally caught his breath. “That’s good. Side salad?”

“Whatever, rabbit.” Dean slid past him, passing off the motel door key as he did so. “I’ll be back soon.” He bounded down the same stairs Sam had struggled up. Sam sighed, and began the trek down the hall.

“Can’t you do better than this? I mean, it’s pretty pathetic.”

Sam grunted, putting a little more weight onto his bad leg while he fiddled with the door. The pain made Lucifer flicker and disappear.

Money had been tight since Sam had left the hospital. He wrinkled his nose at the moldy smell and the obvious stains on the blankets. He texted Dean to grab the blankets out of the Impala as he edged his way into the bathroom. Dean had left out clothes and a towel for him, and Sam smiled at the sight. Gruff and dismissive by day, big brother by night, even after everything.

The bathroom was closet-sized, which made it awkward as Sam half-knelt on his good leg on the lip of the tub, and swung his bad leg around. The thrill of pain from the motion, Sam was used to. It was the inability to compensate for damaged nerves not doing what they were supposed to do which kept throwing him off.

The water was too cold to do any good for his aching muscles. Sam made his shower quick. When he turned to get out of the tub again, though, he misjudged how high he could pull his gimp leg. The resultant strike against the side of the shower sent pain splintering up his nerves. Sam lost his balance, falling heavily.

“Sam!?”

Sam blinked up dazedly as Dean burst into the bathroom.

“I think I fell,” he said.

The creases in Dean’s forehead were becoming permanent from worry. “Do we need to get you one of those buttons that sets off an alarm when you fall?”

“Might not hurt,” Sam said as Dean gave him an arm up.

“Bro, towel.”

“Right.”

Sam hissed as Dean helped him out of the bathroom and over to one of the questionable beds. The guilt on Dean’s face was eating at him, and he nudged Dean in the ribs. “Hey, wanna try rolling one of our blankets under me? I’d hate to end up with lice.”

Dean’s lips quirked into a small smile. “Yeah, sorry about the accommodations.”

“Since when do you apologize for that?” Sam gripped a hand into the covers, breathing a little quickly to cover up his whimper of pain. “Remember how we used to score them based on how many cockroaches there were?”

Dean eased one of their blankets under Sam’s right side, giving him a hand to help him lean the other way and pull it the rest of the way through. “You used to be such a little girl about them. Wouldn’t even go near them.”

“They were gross,” Sam said petulantly.

Dean rubbed his neck. “I’m, uh, I’m gonna go out. You need anything?”

Sam bit back the request that Dean stay and smiled blandly. “Nah, I’m good. Don’t drink and drive.”

Dean smiled a little grimly and left, locking the door behind him.

“What a burden. I mean, you, of course. So pathetic.”

“Shut up.”

Lucifer grinned. “Aw, c’mon, don’t you want to have some fun?”

Sam’s leg suddenly caught on fire, and he arched in pain, catching a scream behind his teeth. 

* * *

 

“Another.”

The bartender raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything as he poured another glass of liquid guilt.

“Hey, handsome, you looking for company?”

Dean didn’t even bother looking over as he shook his head. He spent a couple more hours in the bar before paying and leaving. He stepped in a puddle outside the door. Water seeped into his boot. Dean remembered—

_“Crap, dude, it’s raining.” Dean used his hand to shield his eyes. “It’s gonna suck to hunt in this.”_

Sam shook his head, water spraying. “You want to go back?”

Dean took another swig from his flask. “Nah, man, we can handle it.”

Sam glanced at the flask. “You sure you’re okay?”

The flash of irritation Dean felt was just another push to do a hunt. If he didn’t take the distraction, he might punch Sam in the face.

“C’mon,” he said. “Let’s go kill the banshee.”

“Get out of the way!”

Dean jerked back from a truck full of drunk rednecks zoomed past. He gave them a one-fingered salute and went on. Their room was dark, leaving Dean to fumble his way to bed. Sam whimpered a little, and Dean’s heart seized. He clambered out of bed again. His hand found Sam’s head.

“Shhh, you’re okay,” he whispered.

Sam shuddered and then sighed, breaths slowly evening out. Dean hesitated for a moment, but he couldn’t leave Sam alone to fall back into a nightmare again. Despite thinking early on that his presence would make everything worse, Sam slept better when Dean was close, before and after the . . . the hunt. Dean settled back against the headboard. It wasn’t long before Sam had curled an arm around his leg. Every move Sam made—unconscious or no—to reach out to Dean was heaping coals on his head. Dean closed his eyes tightly. But he didn’t move his leg. 

* * *

 

_“No, get down!”_

_“Dean stop!”_

Sam inhaled sharply as he awoke. Warmth and a steady heartbeat under his ear calmed him . . . until he realized he was practically cuddling Dean. Flushing with embarrassment, Sam edged away. Dean was half-slumped against the headboard, unmoving as Sam made his escape. Sam couldn’t tell whether he was pretending to be asleep for Sam’s sake or he was actually asleep.

The mornings were always more painful. Sam pressed his hand into the stiffened muscle around his knee, grunting a little at the ache.

“Let me do that.”

Dean appeared in front of Sam like magic, kneeling down and beginning the therapeutic massage he’d learned while Sam was in the hospital. Sam hissed at the pain of it. He didn’t miss how Dean flinched at the sound.

“Aw, how sweet of him. It’s like he actually loves you a little,” Lucifer scoffed. Sam ignored him.

“Thanks, man,” he said.

Dean gave Sam’s leg—a twisted mass of scar tissue—one more thorough rub down before releasing him. “What did you want to do today?”

Sam never thought he’d miss Dean bossing him around and running his life. He tried to smile a little. “How ‘bout research?”

His brother didn’t even bother with the routine of rolling his eyes or any kind of disparaging remark, simply nodding and moving on. Sam allowed himself thirty seconds to pout before he got up and began the slow process of getting dressed.

Dean was kind enough to pull the Impala around for him. Sam hobbled over, grinning through the rolled down window. “Wow, a valet? Moving up in the world, Dean.”

Dean opened his mouth to retort when there was the shriek of someone slamming on their brakes on the highway. The sound smashed through all the careful walls Sam had and—

_The banshee’s breath was hot on his face as she shrieked again, deafening Sam. He cried out, batting away her clawed fingers while trying to pull free of the rocks crushing his leg. He couldn’t get free he—_

“Sam!”

Sam blinked. Dean’s face was pale. Was he okay?

“Am I okay? You just toppled over! I thought that any side effects from the head trauma were gone,” Dean snapped.

Sam rubbed at his leg absently. “I don’t know. I just zoned out, I guess.”

“Yeah, well, space cadet, you can stop now.” Dean’s biting tone was undermined by the worry in his eyes.

Lucifer sighed dramatically. “Really, Sam, if you want to drive your brother nuts there are simpler ways to do it.”

“Sorry,” Sam whispered.

Dean looked like he wanted to say something sharp in return to that statement, but he just shook his head.

“C’mon, we gotta see what’s going on with those killings. Though I’m betting serial killer.”

Sam took the arm Dean offered and carefully got to his feet. The Impala was idling, waiting for him, and it was a relief to fall back into his seat.

* * *

“Dean?”

Dean hesitated by the door, curling one hand into a fist in his pocket.

“Maybe you shouldn’t . . . you shouldn’t drink so much.”

The words were meant well. Dean knew that. He really did. But all he could think was that it was true. This whole time, Sam . . . Sam blamed Dean the way that Dean had blamed himself.

He chanced a look up at his brother. Sam was sitting up in bed, bad leg stretched out while the other was curled up to his chest. He looked nervous.

“You think I shouldn’t drink?” Dean said softly.

Sam’s hands curled in the bedspread, a tell that he’d had ever since he was a child. “I, uh, I don’t want you getting hurt. While I’m not there.”

“Or you don’t want me getting you hurt anymore,” Dean translated bitterly.

“What? No, Dean, c’mon. I mean it, you going out and getting drunk, me not knowing whether you’re going to get into fights without me to watch your back . . .”

“I can take care of myself,” Dean growled. “I did it for years when you weren’t around.”

The words struck a chord. Sam’s eyes flashed.

“No, you obviously can’t! That’s why this happened!” Sam snapped. A second later, he froze. “Not like . . . Dean, not like that. I mean that when you’re drunk you can’t, um—“

“No, you meant it,” Dean said. He left without another word. Long strides took him far from the motel and Sam, into a park. Dean’s steps slowed, and he steered himself into the small playground, slumping down on one of the swings.

“Dean, wait, I don’t think you should shoot the banshee,” Sam whispered. He glanced to the left, and Dean tightened his grip on his gun.

“Sam, we need to shoot it. Get over whatever dumb theory you have this time and pick up your gun.”

“No, Dean, it’s—“

The shriek of the banshee made Dean go temporarily deaf. He raised his gun, squeezing off three shots in a row. The creature darted away, near some large rock formations. Dean got a few more shots off, but then he felt vibrations under his feet. Without warning, Sam was in his face, shoving Dean. He lost his balance, toppling back and down a small slope. He landed behind a large boulder.

“Sam!” he shouted. He couldn’t hear his own voice, so he had no way to know if Sam could hear him.

As he got up, the vibrations increased. Dean peered out from behind the rock only to gape in horror. The open terrain was being engulfed in a rockslide, and Sam was nowhere to be seen.

“Dean!” Sam was limping towards him. Dean wasn’t sure how long he had walked before sitting, but it was too far for Sam’s bad leg. He started up, grasping Sam’s arms as soon as he was close enough.

“Sam, you shouldn’t’ve—“

“Dean, I don’t blame you.”

“Yes, you do,” Dean said bitterly. “I was drinking on the job, I was ignoring you—I’m the reason you got hurt.”

“You’re the reason I’m not dead.” Sam’s hand gripped Dean’s shoulder. “Look, man, we’re all screwed up. You were drinking on the hunt. I was . . . I was seeing Lucifer. Neither of us were being smart about the hunt. But whatever mistakes we made, I’ve forgiven and forgotten. And you need to do the same.”

Sam’s puppy dog eyes were out in full force. Dean sighed, bringing his hand up to rest on Sam’s head.

“Enough with the eyes. Alright, I’ll try.”

The lines in Sam’s face eased, and he smiled. “Okay. Now, I can’t make it back, so you need to go get the car.”

“Got it.” Dean helped Sam settle down on the swings. “You’ll be okay.”

“I am now.”

“You and your chick flick moments.”

Sam curled an arm around the chain. “I’m not the one who stormed out in a huff and was moping in the dark.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Whatever.” He couldn't stop himself from looking back at Sam one more time. "We're . . . we're okay?"

There was no lie in Sam's eyes. "We're okay."

* * *

_When I see you I see scars that are matching_

_I know what I'm feeling_

_You are feeling scars remaining through_

_When I see you I see scars_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics and title by Disciple
> 
> It was actually kind of tough to do this. The problem with making angels available to magically heal any injury is . . . well, they can magically heal any injury. So I squeezed this into an AU S7 timeline to make it work. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	8. Adjustments (TotallyChic)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from TotallyChic: Sam is injured on a hunt (how is up to you), and either Dean, Cas, or anyone depending on the season or whether it's pre-series protects him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TotallyChic wins the award for most open prompt! Seriously fun to write a prompt that could be taken in any direction. Though why I chose to use Castiel in season 5 (a very difficult thing to do for me), I have no idea. Hope this works!

 

Dean’s phone rang. Castiel cocked his head, waiting for the hunter to answer it.

Dean rolled over, glancing through sleepy eyes at the screen before dropping the phone.

“Why aren’t you answering it?” Castiel asked.

“Sam can take care of himself, remember? He doesn’t want us, so he can have a taste of his own medicine.”

The phone rang again. Dean rolled over, shoving his pillow over his head. It became silent again, and Castiel waited uneasily. When it rang the third time, he picked it up, moving outside.

“Sam?”

There was a panting breath, before Sam croaked a bewildered, “Cas?”

“Yes, that is my name.” He waited.

“I—I need help.” There was a strange whining noise. Castiel frowned. 

“What is wrong?”

“I was on a hunt, and I’m pinned down.”

“What is your location?”

“I don’t know . . . check the GPS location on my phone, it’s turned on.”

Castiel grimaced. “I will find you,” he promised. Sam cut the call off, leaving   Castiel staring uncertainly at the phone. Dean did not seem to want to help. Castiel flew to another time zone, where it was daytime, and received assistance from a technologically capable individual. Sam’s signal was coming from somewhere in the Appalachian mountains. 

Castiel flew there, glancing around the quiet forest. 

“Cas?”

He turned. Sam was on the ground.

“Sam.” Castiel took a step towards him.

“No, the skinwalker, it’s still out there.” Sam groaned, hand drifting towards his leg. Castiel flinched at the sight of the a large bear trap encasing Sam’s foot. “It’s gonna come back.”

“But your leg, Sam . . .”

There was a growl behind them. A freakish tangle of legs and fur made up the creature. Castiel stepped in front of Sam. 

“What will kill it?”

Sam gestured to the side, where a machete lay. Castiel scooped it up, wielding it like one of his old weapons. He was ready when the creature lunged, slashing off two limbs. It roared, moving back. 

Behind Castiel, Sam panted. “Go for . . . go for the eye, Cas.”

The skinwalker moved, limbs coiling over the ground. It seemed to be focused behind him, on Sam. The easier target. Castiel felt a strange surge of feeling. It had no right to take Sam away from this world. It was not Sam’s time.

“You will not take him,” he said. 

It approached again, lashing out with several clawed limbs. One of them managed to snag Castiel’s coat. He let it drag him a little closer, enough so he could slice wildly at the eye. It evaded him, tossing him back, away from Sam.

Castiel cried out as it went for Sam. He only saw one claw wrap around Sam’s arm before he threw the machete with deadly accuracy. It collapsed next to Sam, and he darted forward. 

“Did it hurt you more?”

Sam, half his body coated in blood from the skinwalker, blinked up at him dazedly. “You killed it.”

“You are hurt.”

Sam grunted a little, pulling at the trap. “I . . . I didn’t see it.”

“How did the skinwalker not kill you while I was trying to find you?”

Sam gestured above his head, where a gun was discarded. “Shotgun. Just ran out of bullets.”

Castiel carefully inserted his fingers in the trap, prying it apart. Sam cried out as blood gushed from his mangled foot. His healing powers were fading, but he did enough to stem the blood and fix major damage.

“I can . . . I can walk.”

Sam stumbled upwards, unable to suppress a whimper as pressure went onto his bad foot. Castiel offered a steadying shoulder, stumbling himself when Sam’s considerable weight leaned on him.

“Sorry,” Sam grunted.

“I can take you back,” he offered.

“Back where?” There was bitterness in Sam’s voice—enough that it seemed to surprise himself as well as Castiel. He cleared his throat, restating, “uh, I mean, I didn’t get a place yet, I just arrived here for the hunt.”

“You could come back. To Dean.”

Sam’s eyes became pinched. “No. No, he doesn’t want me back.”

“Alright.” Castiel took Sam’s weight more fully, snagged the duffel lying hearby, and flew to a motel. He was forced to deposit Sam against the wall and went to the front office. 

“One room,” he said.

“Double or single.”

“Single.”

Castiel carefully counted out the human money Dean had given him to pay for the room. He emerged from the office triumphant with a key and a number, only for something in his chest to twist at the sight of Sam slumped on the ground. 

“Sam!” Sam’s head bobbed in response. Castiel knelt at his side. “Can you walk? We have a room.”

With seemingly herculean effort, Sam’s head lifted. He squinted at the angel.

“Cas?”

“Yes.” He hesitated, and then levered Sam off the ground with an arm around the man’s waist. “Only a few more steps.”

Sam whined when his injured foot touched the ground again. Castiel winced, hustling Sam along into the dark room and depositing him on the bed.

“Why are you not improving?” he asked. “The bleeding has stopped.”

“N-not here.” Sam lifted his arm, showing a swath of his shirt stained red. Castiel hissed, lifting the fabric to see parallel slashes. 

“I do not have enough power—“ he started.

“Gotta . . . gotta stitch.” Sam pointed shakily to his bag. “First aid. There.”

For the first time, Castiel felt like he was fumbling, hands not as certain as they were supposed to be. The needle felt so small between his fingers. 

“What now?” he said.

“Sterilize. Sam’s eyes drifted a little before snapping back into focus. “My lighter.”

The flame singed the tips of Castiel’s fingers, but he ignored it. 

“Just sew it together.” Sam’s voice was slurring. “I’m gonna . . . pass out.”

Castiel looked up, panicked. “Wait, I do not know—“

Sam was out. Castiel swallowed heavily, and bent to the task at hand. He had healed his siblings before, but the incorporeal battles of heaven could not compare to trying to stitch together ragged flesh with hands covered in blood. Once he was done, he stumbled away. For the first time in Castiel’s remembrance, he felt nauseous.

Sam stirred, dry throat clicking as he swallowed. Water. Castiel could give him water.

He nudged the younger Winchester’s chin with the cup. “Drink.”

Sam’s eyes rolled a little under their lids before he finally blinked at Castiel. “D’n?”

“No. It is Castiel.”

“Cas.” Sam’s hand fumbled upward, nearly spilling the water. Castiel held his hand down. 

“Slowly,” he said, tipping the cup. The water sloppily spilled over Sam’s chin. “I am sorry.”

“S’okay.” 

“What else do you need?”

Sam’s eyes slipped closed. “Will you . . . will you stay?”

Castiel was surprised. “You want me to?”

Pain left Sam’s thoughts vulnerable and exposed. “Don’ wanna be alone. Not with him.”

“With whom?” Castiel asked, but Sam was already asleep. 

The phone in Castiel’s hand began ringing. He walked outside quickly answering it before it woke Sam up.

“Hello?”

“Cas! Why the hell did you steal my phone?”

“I had need of it.”

Dean sounded angry. “Well, next time ask.”

“Very well.”

There was a pause. 

“What did . . . what did Sam say? Are you with him now?”

Castiel thought of the pain in Sam’s face when Sam had said, “he doesn’t want me back.” 

“No, he was merely communicating research on the apocalypse. I had a different errand to accomplish.”

“Well, hurry back,” Dean said irritably. “You can’t keep leaving without telling me. Unless you want to start being like Sam.”

Castiel felt a strange sensation in his stomach. Almost . . . anger.

“I will return soon,” he said, and shut the phone. 

There was a sound of movement, inside the room. Castiel returned to see Sam awkwardly leaning from the bed, teetering on the edge of falling, in an attempt to reach for the water.

He was quick enough to reach Sam before he fell. “Stay in bed,” he said sternly. “You will hurt yourself.”

Sam stared up at him. “Dean must be rubbing off on you,” he said. Still, he sank back without any other objection. 

Castiel helped Sam drink the water. This time, he didn’t spill any at all. 

“Thanks, Cas,” Sam mumbled. Castiel felt himself smile a little.

“You are welcome, Sam.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I'm not too distracted by the Winchester brother relationship, I am totally in love with Cas and Sam schmoop. Sue me. 
> 
> This will be the last fill before Christmas! I work five 12 hr shifts this weekend, go home next week (for the first time since moving this summer!) and then come back to work 4 shifts including Christmas. So yeah. I may work on some prompts, but I doubt I'll finish anything to post before then.
> 
> So Merry Christmas! The holidays can be tough for some people, so if you want to reach out and talk, by all means do so, I don't bite :)


	9. Bent Out of Shape (Bro_Fan_For_Life)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's good with dark, tight spaces, really. Even the little stint being held by the cannibalistic family in a cage, no, he's totally not freaked out, nope, not a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR! :D :D :D
> 
> Bro_Fan_For_Life wanted a post-benders story. I sorta took it in a weird direction, but I hope it works!
> 
> And in other announcements; I'm closing prompting (not sure if it'll be permanent or not) at least until I finish writing my SW big bang for this year.

“We don’t have to do this hunt,” Dean repeated for the millionth time.

“Oh, so we’ll let the nice family die, is that it?”

Dean made a face. “Nice is a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?”

Sam sighed, “yes, they are rich, pompous jerks, but that doesn’t mean they deserve to die.”

“Alright, alright.” To Sam’s eyes, Dean seemed twitchy. More twitchy than normal, which had become a new norm ever since he’d been taken by the cannibal family. Some days, Sam appreciated the protectiveness of his brother. Most days, it drove him crazy.

“Let’s go,” he said, slamming his door shut.

“Don’t take out your bad mood on my baby,” Dean threatened. “I like her a lot more than you.”

Dean made comments like that all the time, but somehow it still stung. “Whatever,” Sam muttered.

The house—mansion, really—loomed above them. In some ways it was a relief. Any hunt that didn’t remind him of the grimy, run-down Benders was fine by him. Not that he was . . . scared.

“Alright, so cleansing room by room, or do you think we can find this haunted box?”

Sam cleared his throat. “Well, a cleansing might not take care of it, since it’s connected to an object. We’ll have to find the box.”

“Should’ve figured,” Dean muttered.

Sam thought of tight, small attics and swallowed. “Why don’t you start going top to bottom, I’ll do the opposite.”

Dean went still. “We’re splitting up?”

Sam gestured at the house. “Do you want to be here for days? C’mon, Dean, we’re talking about a music box. Those things are tiny.”

“You would know,” Dean said, but his heart wasn’t in the jibe. Sam could count the minutes Dean hadn’t had Sam in his sights since the cannibals.

“Radios?” Sam gave his peace offering a shot.

“Fine. You end up eaten by a jewelry box though, and I will write that on your gravestone.”

“Deal.”

They trudged up the walkway together, using the keycode given to them by the owners to get in. Dean must’ve been pretty on edge about working another job to suggest passing it up so many times; they were being paid pretty well to get rid of the cursed box.

Dean hesitated in the foyer. Sam cast a suspicious eye at the glass chandelier over their heads.

“You’ll signal. If anything’s wrong.”

Sam nodded. “Be careful.”

“You too.” 

* * *

 

Dean glanced distastefully over ugly decor that had probably cost thousands of dollars. He would be glad when they were done with this job and could waste the rich man’s money on a night out. Though chances were, Sam would be ridiculous and reasonable and put it into some kind of savings fund. Maybe someday he would have a house like this. And a little hut out in the back for Dean.

The thoughts soured any of the enjoyment Dean was getting from taking on another hunt. His skin itched from Sam being in another part of the house. The sooner this was over, the better.

An old antique cabinet caught Dean’s eye. It was locked, but that was barely any kind of deterrent.

The box was sitting there, plain as could be. Dean grinned, taking it out. There was a resultant whoosh of sound as the spirit, angry, tried to stop Dean, but he had already covered it in salt and lit it on fire.

“Score one for being a complete boss,” he said. It lacked the oomph without Sam to roll his eyes; Dean unhooked his radio from his belt.

“Yo, Sam. Party’s over, I found the box.”

Sam voice, tinged with static, returned. “Nice work. I’m in the —ment. Meet—“

“Sam, you’re breaking up.”

“I, uh, I thought—heard something in the basement. I’ll come up.”

Dean relaxed. “Meet on the first floor.”

His boots had left scuff marks on the marble stairs. Dean grinned privately, doing his best to stomp heavily on his way down as well.

Sam wasn’t at the entryway, and Dean tried not to sigh. No job was ever easy.

“Sam?” he tried on the radio.

The hiss of static answered him. Dean cursed, running for the door to the basement—thank goodness he’d looked at the blueprint of the house before this job.

The basement was as large as the house. Dean flicked the lights on, darting through it.

“Sam! Sammy, answer me!”

There was a muted thump. Dean whirled, and then blinked in disbelief at a huge, vault-like, steel door.

“Sam!?”

“Dean?” Sam’s voice was muffled. “Are you there?”

“Dude, what happened?”

“Panic room, I thought I saw something, and the door shut behind me. It’s jammed.”

Dean shook his head. “Only you, Sammy.”

“Can you . . . can you open it?”

Dean was still grinning as he reached for the handle—and then frowned as the door wouldn’t budge. “Is there a lock on the inside?” he asked.

“Yeah, I tried it, it’s not that.”

Dean frowned at the solid door. “Uh, it’s pretty tightly sealed. You sure there’s nothing in there?”

“I can’t—“

Sam cut off, and the last humor Dean was finding in the situation bled away. “Sam?”

There was the sound of Sam hitting something against the door. “Dean, I can’t be trapped again, you have to get me out.”

“Sam, don’t worry. We’ll figure it out.” There was silence. Dean’s heart was climbing up his throat. “Sam, talk to me.”

“I—I was waiting. I didn’t know when they were going to come.”

“Sammy, you aren’t there. Focus, kiddo, c’mon. Look around. Are there any switches that might let the door unlock?”

“Dark. I . . . I can’t.”

Dean snarled out a curse, banging his fist against the door. “Sammy, hold on, okay? I’m going to get help.” 

* * *

 

Sam knew he wasn’t back in the barn. He knew that.

For some reason, though . . . he could smell it. The thick earthy smell of a barn, overlaid by the coppery tang of recent spilt blood. Sam panted, trying to breathe through his mouth. Why was it so hot?

Sam found that his hands were twisting in his clothes, and it hurt. He scratched at his skin, just a little, to drive the sensation away. Dean had left. He was sure that he had said why, but for some reason he couldn’t remember. They were going to eat him, he was next—

No. Focus. He wasn’t there.

Sam wasn’t supposed to be afraid. He had chased a normal life because he was afraid, and when he’d come back to hunting, he’d sworn that he was done being scared, that he would take control.

Control.

He could hear the rats.

“Dean?”

There wasn’t a response. Sam sucked in another breath, feeling his heart rate speeding up. He was alone. Was Dean coming? Would he be eaten?

The darkness was like spiders running over his mind.

There was a clang, and Sam whimpered, crawling back into the corner.

“Sammy?”

It wasn’t real. Sam had imagined this before. He knew what was real, didn’t he?

The concrete felt real. Sam tried his best to dig his fingers into it, maybe he could make his way out.

“Sam, listen to me! I’m right here, can you say something? Please.”

Dean didn’t say ‘please’ for anything. Sam swallowed, throat clicking from how dry the air was.

“Leave me alone, I know you aren’t real,” he said.

There was a strange thump. “Sammy, I am real. When you were ten years old, you fought to keep a girl in your class from being bullied, and broke the other kid’s nose.”

Sam couldn’t trust . . . no, that wasn’t right. Focus. He was good at focusing.

“Help is on its way, Sammy. They’re going to bring the tools to take this door down.”

It was so dark. Sam stood, stumbling as he went around the cage. They had to have left a way to get free. The hinge. Where did the hinge go?

His wandering hand caught a sharp metal edge. Sam hissed, pulling his hand away. The pain helped him focus, and he turned back to where Dean was on the other side, talking about inane nonsense from when they were kids.

“Dean?” he whispered. “Dean, can you hear me?”

Dean’s story about the haunted aquarium came to a halt. “Sammy, you with me? C’mon, talk to me.”

“It’s like I’m back there again,” Sam confessed. “Waiting to be killed . . . for them to kill you.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Dean said. ‘Focus, buddy. You aren’t there. This is a dumb little job, right? It’s just a dark room.”

“Just a dark room,” Sam repeated. “Just a dark room.” 

* * *

 

Dean was straining to hear, pressed against the metal door like he could somehow melt through it. Sam was whispering on the other side, bare little sounds that Dean could scarcely understand, but none of it was comforting.

The clattering of sound as rescue finally arrived distracted Dean.

“Hey! Down here, quick!”

Dean had explained everything over the phone. He stepped aside and watched with mild approval as they efficiently got to work, making quick work of the large hinges and prying the door aside. Dean darted inside as soon as he was clear.

“Hey, Sammy.”

Dean’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of Sam crammed in a corner, wide eyes darting around. He swallowed, dropping to Sam’s level and shuffling close.

“Sammy, we’re free, okay? C’mon, man, snap out of it.”

Sam didn’t look like he could see Dean. Dean sighed, and then slapped Sam across the face. Hard.

His brother reared back, staring wild-eyed at Dean. “What? Wha—where are we?”

“Let’s go.”

Dean ignored his brother’s protests, and the well-meaning questions of their rescuers, dragging Sam past all of the insanity. He barely registered a check being pressed into his hands by the effusive resident of the house as he bundled Sam into the Impala. Sam’s hands were bloody, and Dean competently wrapped them in bandages after dousing them in antiseptic.

Sam shivered a little, and Dean peeled off his jacked, tucking it in around him.

“We’re okay,” he promised recklessly. He drove quickly out of town, onto a small road that led to some bluffs overseeing the ocean.

“Dean, what are we doing here?”

“C’mon.” Dean snagged one of the thick blankets out of the trunk before settling on the hood. Sam tentatively sat down, a little too far. Dean sighed, dragging Sam closer and snapping the blanket over both of them. “Stop being a prat, college boy.”

Sam didn’t answer. In the dim light from the setting sun, Dean could see Sam’s cheeks were flushed.

“You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about,” he said gruffly, unable to look at Sam while he made his speech. “You were captured by a family that was going to eat you. That totally merits any kind of freak out you wanna have.”

“You wouldn’t freak like that.”

Dean snorted. “Have you seen me in small spaces, Sam? Yeah, I think I would.”

Sam sniffed a little beside him, dashing a hand across his face. “I felt about ten years old again, you coming to save me from the boogeyman.”

“Remember what we used to call him?”

Sam groaned. “Dude.”

“Boogerman,” Dean said fondly. “Man, that was gross.”

“You’re still gross.”

“You’re still a pansy.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I cheated and ended with bitch/jerk. It's just so eassyyyyyy. 
> 
> It was actually really difficult to write this. For some reason, even though I set out to write Sam panicking in a post-Benders situation that would be relevant, I just couldn't quite see season 1 Sam doing this kind of panic attack thing; it's usually saved for post-Hell when I'm writing. So I hope I managed to insert a bit of that season 1 sass and backbone, but also make it realistic that Sam would freak out this way. Not sure I managed it completely.
> 
> Anyway, in real life updates, I am back to work after one very short week at home with the fam before christmas, and then shifts got crazy and I was super busy but now it's sort of gotten into the swing of things again. But, my friend gave me her old xbox 360 so, y'know, distractions. Also trying to write the Sam Winchester Big Bang again, so woo! Lots to do!
> 
> Hope everyone's new years are off to a great start. And if not, I hope they get better :)


	10. After the Fall (Kas3y)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Kas3y on ff.net. Stanford, hurt!Sam galore, familial reunions fraught with trouble . . . get a load of that angst yo

“Where are you going?”

Sam couldn’t look Jess in the eye. “Just something I have to take care of. I’ll be back in a few days.”

She pressed her lips together. “Fine,” she said reluctantly. “Be safe?”

He looked up then, fighting through the lie. “Yeah. I’ll be safe.”

Sam felt like his lips were burning after they kissed. Trying to keep Jess safe from hunting was going to eat him up someday.

To get on a bus again—a bus just like the one he’d taken when he left his family—was painful. Sam paid the fare and sat down, miserably watching his hands. He hadn’t hunted in a long time, and never by himself.

The two hour bus ride passed by in a blur. Sam blindly swung his duffel bag onto his back and exited. The chill of a northern California autumn bit through his threadbare jacket.

“Excuse me.” Sam stopped one of the bus line employees. “I’m trying to get to the cave? Uh, it’s supposed to be haunted.”

The employee rolled her eyes. “Ah. One of those college kids. Don’t blame me if you end up dead.”

Sam pressed out a tense smile. “Trust me, I won’t.” He spread out his map. “Could you mark it for me?”

His budget was too tight to get a cab. Sam had to walk fifteen miles from town to get to the forest. Night was beginning to fall; he pitched his tent on the outskirts of the forest, rolling out his notes to view of flashlight.

“Four deaths, each one hiking or spelunking near the caves,” he murmured to himself.

He could almost hear Dean say, “hippie idiots.”

Sam shook his head. As much as he tried to pretend he was fine, Dean's absence was like a missing limb.

He refocused, looking at the map once more. All his research pointed towards a beserker. There was a slight chance it was a wendigo, but it would have to be a new one, since there wasn't a cyclical aspect to the attacks. To compensate, he had both his revolver filled with silver bullets and a flare gun.

Sam's night passed sleeplessly by. Without someone to take watch, he was leery to fall asleep so close to the site of the attacks. Morning came, bright and cold. Sam shivered as he packed up camp. It was time to do this.

Sam was careful to mark his way as he headed into the forest. One time, his dad had put him in charge of the spray paint; he'd gotten the belt for collecting foliage for his biology class and getting them lost on the way back.

While he hadn't expected his quarry to be subtle, the amount of blood Sam suddenly found splashed across his path was a little disconcerting. A deer had been mauled, viciously, and then dragged away. It was brutal in a way few animals or people would be.

"Here we go," Sam murmured to himself. The anticipation of the hunt crawled under his skin.

The cave was easy to find after the blood trail marked his way. Sam crouched behind a nearby tree, assessing. He didn't want to go straight into the cave and end up trapped. Best strategy would be waiting for it to come out.

He didn't have to wait long. A strange snort, and Sam kept hands hovering over both his weapons.

What emerged was not the bear-like beserker, or the skeletal wendigo.

"Bigfoot's real? Interesting." Sam muttered to himself. He could almost hear Dean's comment that Sam’d finally found his blood relatives.

The large creature fumbled with what remained of the deer carcass near the cave entrance. Sam cocked the revolver, aiming carefully. With any luck, bullets would do the trick for such a corporeal creature.

He squeezed off three quick shots, at least two of them hitting center mass. The sasquatch roared as it collapsed. Sam waited five minutes before moving forward, poking it with a stick to be sure.

Without warning, there was a snarl behind him, and Sam was hit along the flank and sent to the ground. He barely managed to protect his throat as claws slashed along his face and abdomen. Sam cried out. Trying to roll away, he scrambled desperately for his revolver, but his legs were caught in a clawed grip. Sam was dragged away, forest debris grinding into the cuts along his side and face.

Inside the entrance of the cave, the second bigfoot clumsily wrapped a thick rope around his feet and drew it tight. Before Sam could do anything, he was hoisted upside down, his weight naturally strengthening his bonds.

Sam went for the flare gun at his waist.

The sasquatch screamed in agony as the flare hit true. One paw came out, lashing at Sam. Unable to dodge, Sam barely blocked the worst of the damage with his arms. The flare gun clattered to the cave ground, out of reach.

To Sam's relief, the bigfoot crumpled into a heap as it died. He'd half-expected it to put out the flame and then finish Sam off. He wrinkled his nose as the smell of burnt flesh filled the air.

Despite how many Star Wars jokes Dean would make, Sam really wished his brother was present. He had a hunting knife strapped to his belt; in order to undo his ropes, however, he had to pull his upper body enough to reach the ropes. His abdominal and flank wounds protested loudly. By the time Sam had managed to saw away at half of the rope, his arms were trembling with pain and fatigue. When the ropes gave way, Sam fell heavily to the floor. For a few moments, he lay there, arms twitching uselessly, blood steadily streaming down his skin.

If he didn't move, he would die. Sam groaned, getting sloppily upright. He pulled off his outer shirt, wrapping it around his midsection to make an awkward compress. The wounds on his arms weren't deep, the blood had mostly congealed. His face, however . . . Sam didn't bother reaching up to feel it. There were lines of fire there, and he could feel blood still dripping off his chin and down his neck. He wouldn't be able to do anything for those.

More time had passed than Sam had thought. He grimaced at the afternoon sun as he emerged from the cage. He had to make it down to the road. Where hopefully someone would give him a ride.

He set off, stumbling past the orange spray paint in a kind of fog. After ten minutes of walking, Sam had used up his reserves; he collapsed with a half-stifled whimper of pain.

"Get up," he whispered to himself. It wasn't as effective as he'd hoped—Sam passed out. 

* * *

 Dean eyed the paint marks uncertainly. "Dad, looks like another hunter got here first."

"Must be a new one. Jim didn't mention any other hunters in the area." John tossed him the duffel. "Let's get this over with. We're going to have to be quick if we want to get this done before nightfall."

Dean made a face. "You sure we shouldn't wait until tomorrow?"

John shook his head. "No telling whether the hunter managed to finish the job or if this paint is from a dumb tourist. We better get up there now."

Dean nodded, falling in behind his dad. He could still remember the time Sam had skimped on painting the trail because he'd had some dumb school thing; they'd wandered in the cold for hours before making it back to the Impala. His dad had been pissed.

"Hey." John stopped. "Blood."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Human. Look at this footprint."

"Heading away from the cave." They glanced at each other.

"You follow this, I'll go on ahead and check out the cave," John instructed. Dean nodded, turning left to follow the stumbling progress of bloody footprints.

He nearly tripped over the body. Dean knelt, taking in the bloody abdomen and hasty bandages.

"Hey man, I hope you aren’t—" as he twisted the guy's head around, he blanched, falling onto his rear. "Sam," he breathed.

Sam's face was marred by slashes across the bridge of his nose and his cheek. Dean swallowed, triaging quickly. The deepest wound was across his right ribs, thankfully not any lower so that his liver was missed. There were also shallow slices across his abdomen that only went to the muscle layer.

"Sammy, can you hear me?" he whispered. Sam didn't stir, and Dean got to work. Stripping off his outer shirt, he composed a hasty field compress for Sam's still-seeping ribs. Sam's body bucked in protest of the pain, but he didn't wake up. Pulling out his bulky cell phone, Dean quickly called John.

"It's Sam, he was the one who took the hunt. He's injured here, I need help."

Dean ignored John's questions, shutting the phone and focusing on Sam again. "Well, you're taller than when I last saw you, but you're skinny as a rake," he muttered. He finagled Sam close, limbs awkwardly flopping everywhere until he managed to get Sam into his arms.

Dean felt his back strain as he lifted Sam.

"You're paying my bills if I need PT after this," he gasped. Sam didn't move, face frighteningly pale.

John came crashing through the underbrush, usually-stoic face full of panic.

"Do we need to call 911?" he asked.

Dean swallowed. "I don't know."

John reached in, pressing his fingers to Sam's carotid.

"Yes. Let's carry him down to the road and call it in." 

* * *

 Hearing came back first. Sam could hear harsh whispers, and subconsciously began straining to understand what they were saying.

“—then he would've called us."

"He was hunting, Dad, that's not nothing."

"No, Dean. You can stay and ask him, and I guarantee he won't come back on the road with us."

"You don't know that."

"Fine. I'll meet you in Wyoming."

A door closed. Sam tried to move a little, and his entire body protested. He groaned aloud.

"Whoa, hey there. Don't move."

Sam was pretty sure he was dreaming. "Dean?"

"One and only."

"Wha're you doing here?" he mumbled.

"We found you."

Sam's sluggish brain had trouble connecting the dots. "Found? Where?"

"On the hunt."

Sam finally remembered why everything hurt. "Oh."

"Yeah, oh."

It took enormous effort to open his eyes. Sam felt stitches pulling in his face as he did so. Dean's face swam into view. "Wher'm'I?"

"Hospital. You got over a hundred stitches, bro."

Sam thought of the test he had on Monday and cringed. "What day is it ?"

"Thursday."

Sam breathed a sigh of relief, feeling stitches in his side pull. He hadn't lost that much time.

"What were you thinking, going alone on that hunt?" Dean asked. There was barely-restrained violence in his voice.

“Had to take care of it,” he murmured, “people were getting hurt.”

“Why didn’t you call?”

He shifted, feeling pain zing across his skin. “You walk out that door, don’t come back,” he quoted stiffly.

Dean frowned. “He’d change his mind. I’m sure if you were to apologize and come back, he’d—“

“Apologize?” Sam shoved himself into a sitting position, glaring as much as he could with the pain in his face. “Screw you, Dean! I have nothing to apologize for.”

Dean’s face was split between some kind of concern, gaze darting over Sam’s broken body every few seconds, and anger. “You walked out on us.”

“Because I don’t want to spend my life living out of motels and looking over my shoulder!” Exhausted, Sam collapsed back onto the pillows, groaning at the ache.

“I should go.”

Sam tried to hide how much those words ripped away at his heart, but pain made his control weak, and he wasn’t able to stop his face from crumpling a little at Dean’s words.

“Are you in pain?”

“I have a million stitches and probably look like Frankenstein’s monster, what do you think?” he snapped, trying to keep his face away from Dean’s scrutiny.

“I’m going to get the nurse.”

When Dean left the room, Sam couldn’t hold back his tears any longer. 

* * *

 “Sam!”

Dean turned at the girl’s voice. He melted back behind the curtain dividing Sam’s room from some other sick patient. Peering through, he saw Sam jolt awake, groaning as pain kicked in.

“Wha—How’d you know I was here?”

“I called around when you didn’t check in. You look like crap.”

Sam laughed a little, ducking his head. “Well, yeah. Get attacked by bears, wear a mask for the rest of my life.”

“Not like that, you idiot, just that you look like you’re in pain and you haven’t been eating.”

Dean couldn’t see Sam’s expression from his angle, but he didn’t miss how Sam kept hiding behind his hair. He hadn’t really talked with Sam about his scars, but no amount of surgery would cover up what had happened. Sam’s normal life had become a little harder to attain. If Dean were to be brutally honest with himself, he would acknowledge that he kind of liked Sam’s scars for that reason.

“Hey.” The girl sat on the edge of Sam’s bed. The way she reached out and touched Sam’s face without hesitating spoke of familiarity, and Dean’s gut clenched with something bitter. “You never need to hide from me. You saw me when I got chicken pox, remember?”

For the first time since . . . maybe Sam’s senior year in high school, Dean saw Sam give a true smile, dimples and all. “At least yours was temporary.”

“I think yours make you look dangerous.” The girl leaned close, whispering something into Sam’s ear that made him go bright red.

“I’m sorry, visiting hours are over.” A nurse poked her head in and smiled at the two of them. “Rules and all that.”

“No worries. I’ll be back tomorrow, okay? I’ll bake you something delicious so you don’t waste away,” the girl said.

“You’re the best,” Sam said drowsily. He slumped back onto his pillows after she left.

“College girls, huh? Maybe I wrote that whole gig off too soon.”

Sam flinched at Dean’s loud tone. “You’re still here?”

Dean eyed his brother. “What, did you think I’d ditch you without making sure you were okay? Without saying goodbye?”

Sam’s silence spoke for him. Dean curled his lips into a sneer. “Believe it or not, some of us try to be good family.”

His little brother seemed to deflate. “Do you want anything else, Dean?”

Dean hesitated. He wanted Sam back with him, hunting like they used to. He wanted his family to get along. He wanted to not be alone anymore.

“Could I have some water?”

Feeling guilty for being so focused that he’d forgotten Sam was injured, Dean quickly filled Sam’s cup and brought it to him. Sam’s hand shook as he took it.

“Thank you,” Sam said quietly.

Dean couldn’t stop the surge of nostalgia that swept over him, and he brushed his fingers through Sam’s hair before he could stop himself. For a second, he could’ve sworn Sam leaned into the touch, but it passed, and Sam drew away, hunching his shoulders defensively.

“I’m going to go,” he muttered. “Have a nice life.”

“Fine.”

Dean got to the door before he heard his name. He half-turned, unwilling to meet Sam’s gaze.

“Dean. Be . . . be careful?”

There were tears in Sam’s voice. Dean’s throat was thick with emotion. “You too,” he said, and he left before anything else could be said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh boy. Sorry for the long absence my dears. My SW big bang has TAKEN OVER MY LIFE. also real life has taken over my life. Night shifts are the worst man. 
> 
> Also, I kinda went a little fast on this one, so there are probably lots of mistakes. 
> 
> Now that I've finished my big bang (look for it soon!) I should get back on track. Still going to keep it closed for new prompts for now, we'll see how things go. Thanks for reading and sticking around :)


	11. When It Changes (samgirl19)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> samgirl19 on ff.net asked for amputation, depression, dean being a bro and john at a loss. So more of my infamous angst lol.

Dean didn’t scare easy. It tended to be a point of pride, when he was in a new school, to take on every dare and show up every other punk that tried to pretend to be brave. 

But as Sam’s scream echoed through the forest, fear struck Dean so deep he felt like it was going to rip apart his chest.

“Sammy!”

He sprinted back the way they’d come. They hadn’t even reached their target’s lair, there was no way it had gotten Sam. 

Dean was right, but the monster of the week’s absence didn’t help Sam. Sam had fallen into some kind of animal  trap, an awful pit laced with barbed wire and spikes. Dean skidded to a stop at the edge, staring down at Sam where he dangled, one leg completely tangled in the barbed wire, his calf half-impaled on one of the stakes. He hung nearly-upside down, face dangerously close to another spike.

“Sammy, can you hear me?”

His brother moaned, stirring slightly. The stake went a little deeper in his leg and Dean grimaced. “Sam, stop moving.”

John finally caught up to them and stopped for a moment, face aghast.

“Dad, what do we--”

“Call for help.” John tossed him his phone. Dean put the call through, babbling out what he hoped was enough information to get rescue to show up before he joined his father in his slow descent into the pit. The hand clippers John kept in his pack were able to clip through the barbed wire, but the haphazard wooden stakes took more effort to get past.

Dean reached Sam, carefully levering his upper body so that it wasn’t putting more pressure on his trapped leg. “Dad, can you cut him free?”

John examined the mess. “I can get rid of the barbed wire, but we’re going to need a saw to get through that stake. Search and Rescue will have to do that part.”

Dean reset his stance. “Alright. Is he bleeding out?”

“No, it’s good and plugged at the moment.” John went silent, focusing on clipping the barbed wire. He wasn’t able to fully remove it from Sam’s leg however, with how much the limb had already swelled with the restricted blood flow.

“Dad, are they going to be able to save his leg?”

They heard the whirring of helicopter blades. John looked straight at Dean. “I don’t know.”

* * *

Sam woke up with a strangled moan, feeling like someone was plucking the nerves in his left leg.

“Dean,” he instinctively breathed. “Dean help.”

“Easy, Sammy, breathe.” Dean’s calloused palm was cupping his neck, enabling Sam to calm and take strength from his brother. 

“What happened? I don’—”

Another wave of pain went shooting up his leg. Sam bit back a scream, clenching his hand in the bedcovers.

“Sammy, I need you to stay calm, okay? You were hurt real bad, and it doesn’t look good.”

Sam blinked through tears. “What doesn’t look good. Dean, I—”

He glanced at his leg and froze. The lower part of his leg was . . . gone. That couldn’t be right. Sam had nightmares like this, he was just asleep. He would wake up and everything would be normal and Dean would make fun of him for crying in his sleep.

“Sammy, breathe, please. Look at me. It’s gonna be alright, the doctors said that there are all kinds of things that can help.”

Sam half-sobbed. “That can help me missing a leg?”

Dean’s hands kept wandering over Sam’s arms, shoulders, chest, like he was checking to make sure Sam was intact. Which he wasn’t. Not anymore. “Sammy, we’ll get through this. Please, kiddo, look at me.”

Sam stared up at him, not sure whether to scream or cry. “It hurts,” he finally said.

“I’ll get the nurse.” 

* * *

Dean kept silent vigil by Sam’s bed. Despite the kind intentions of the nurses, who tried to convince him to go home and rest, he refused to leave. 

Every now and then, Sam would stir, asking for water or pain meds. Dean would oblige him, but Sam made no more effort beyond that to interact with him, or with anything. 

“We have to leave.”

Dean’s head shot up. He stared at their dad. “What?”

“Insurance is falling through, I’ve been called to talk with the hospital’s office.”

Dean glanced at Sam. “Dad, he can’t leave.”

“Would you rather an investigation start? Have him taken away by the CPS?”

He swallowed. “The pain, though . . .”

“Sam’s tough.” John moved to the bed and began disconnecting Sam’s leads. “Hurry up, Dean.”

Every instinct was telling Dean to stop and force John to see reason; instead, he carefully peeled tape off the back of Sam’s IV, sliding the catheter out. Sam began to stir.

“Sorry, Sammy,” Dean whispered. 

“Get him in the wheelchair.”

Dean eased Sam to a sitting position, feeling his little brother’s head loll against his shoulder.

“D’n,” Sam mumbled. “Wha’—”

“Shh. We’re getting out of here, kiddo.”

Sam hissed as Dean lifted him up. Dean imagined the pain he was in and cringed. “You’re okay, Sammy. Breathe.”

* * *

Sam had never felt this way before.

Even on his worst days, when he’d gotten into a screaming match with Dad, or when Dean ditched him to go off with some girl, he always felt . . . sure of himself. Not in a dumb, cocky way, but sure of his own worth. That he could do something and become something more than a hunter. 

He’d never thought any part of that was wrapped up in his physical abilities. But one leg missing, pain, and the inability to walk without a crutch had stripped pretenses away. Sam was useless.

He hated himself for thinking it, though. Tons of people were disabled in a variety of ways, and they weren’t useless. But once Sam took a second to think that, his mind would go back to tthe pity in Dean’s eyes, and the strange mix of wariness and relief in Dad’s, and he was lost again in a spiral of doubt.

“Yo. Broody McBroodster.”

Sam flinched, finding Dean staring at him with a mix of desperate hope and guilt. “You wanna go outside?”

Sam shrugged half-heartedly. Without warning, his empty space where his leg had once been throbbed, and Sam clutched at the stump, biting down on a sob.

“Sammy, Sammy.” Dean was wearing out his name with how often he was repeating it. Vaguely, through the pain, Sam realized Dean was petting at his face, small touches that allowed Sam to focus on them, rather than the pain. Eventually, he took a deep breath, staring at Dean. His older brother’s facade had cracked, and Dean looked wrecked.

“I don’t want to be this way,” Sam whispered.

Dean’s eyes welled up. “I know, Sammy. I know. We’ll get through this.”

“Promise?” The impossible request slipped from Sam’s tongue before he could stop it. He looked into Dean’s eyes, expecting to find a lie.

Instead, through the tears was Dean’s iron will. “I promise.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is short, but it ended so well right there . . . I swear my brain is not working for fic writing right now. Apologies for that, and for the long absence.
> 
> SW Big bang's finally posted, so I can focus on these! After that I'll take a step back and decide where to go next with fic writing. 
> 
> Thanks for reading :)


	12. And Once Again (Ami)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from Ami at ff.net: Sam can't get over an instinctive fear of Castiel in the aftermath of s11. (It's not the first time Lucifer has worn the face of someone he loves, but it's the first time topside and in reality.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONFESSION: I have not watched season 11. Or 12. I'm the worst spn fan ever, I know. So this is largely based on what I sort of heard? Life's been so crazy I didn't even have time to research how this prompt should go so this is VERY VERY AU. Ami I am so sorry if this is the exact opposite of what you wanted. Feel free to write a nasty review! 
> 
> That said, I am enormously proud of writing some actual interaction between Cas and Sam so there. :P

“You want to . . . what?”

“Come with you.” Cas shuffled a little. “On a hunt.”

Dean blinked at him. “Uh, why?”

Irritated by the questions, Castiel looked away. “I do not want to be left . . . after Lucifer was gone, I didn’t . . .”

“Stop your yammering, whatever. You can come with, just don’t get in the way,” Dean said, gesturing impatiently.

“Thank you.” Castiel kept his face impassive, to avoid revealing his relief. He hadn’t wanted to be left alone, not with his thoughts.

Sam came into the room, preoccupied with his phone.

“Hey, Cas is coming with us,” Dean said.

If Castiel hadn’t been looking at Sam, he would have missed the flinch. As it was, Sam’s reflex was quickly stifled, and he looked as calm as always. “Do we need Castiel on this one?”

“I imagine you two could handle it yourselves, but I would merely be grateful to . . . assist, in any way possible.”

Sam’s glance was sharp and assessing. “Alright, then, Castiel.” 

* * *

 

To put it kindly, the hunt was dull. Castiel spent most of it bored, barely paying attention as Sam and Dean interviewed witnesses of a ghost that liked to scare children. It was easy to get lost in his head during those times, and he barely snapped himself back into the present. Dean, caught up in the case, didn’t seem to notice, but a few times Sam seemed to be watching Cas when he managed to look back up. Sam would instantly look away again, but his attention was still there. If there was a word to describe him, it would be . . . wary. It made Castiel feel even more on edge, which was strange. Usually Sam’s presence was a bulwark of calm, never an irritant.

Castiel began paying more attention to Sam, and noticed that Dean always was between the two of them. When Cas stepped around Dean to get a cookie one of the witnesses was offering, Sam took an over-large step back to let Cas by.

Cas was beginning to think it may have been a mistake to tag along on the hunt. 

* * *

 

“Cas, since you’re here, you could take a turn to dig.”

“Is that really necessary?” Sam asked Dean.

“Sam, he’ll cut our time. Angel mojo, right?”

Annoyed at being talked about instead of to, Castiel snatched the shovel from Sam’s hands, ignoring Dean’s snort of laughter. Sam backed up a few steps, nearly tripping over another gravestone.

“Sammy, what’s up with you?” Dean asked.

“N-nothing.” Sam turned away. Castiel shoveled awkwardly, unsure the way to hold the tool.

“Duck!”

Castiel ducked, unsure if it was directed towards him or not. He saw Sam flying through the air a second later, a ghostly entity throwing him into a nearby tree.

“Sam!”

Castiel turned to his task, knowing from what Sam had taught him that the ghost would only get more vicious as time went on. His angelic strength made a difference, despite his struggle with handling the shovel; Cas reached the bottom of the grave, breaking through cheap wood.

The shotgun boomed overhead. “Dean, I’m through!” Cas called.

“Get out of the grave and take this.”

Castiel scrambled out, taking the shotgun thrust at him as Dean turned to the grave. He shot at the ghost once, before noticing that Sam was frighteningly still at the base of the tree.

The ghost went up in flames with a screech, leaving Cas free to run over.

As he drew near, Sam began to stir.

“Sam, are you injured?”

Sam’s eyes were at half-mast. At the sight of Castiel, however, they opened wide, and he scrambled backwards.

“Don’t touch me, don’t—”

Dean jogged up behind Cas, dropping to his knees next to Sam. “Hey, Sammy, are you hurt?”

Sam shook his head a little, and then gasped in pain, arm going to his ribs.

“Broken,” he bit out.

“Cas, can you heal him?”

Castiel hesitated, searching Sam’s face. Sam gave a nearly-imperceptible nod and he cleared his throat. “Yes.”

Cas didn’t miss the tremor in Sam’s hands, or the flinch as Cas’ fingers approached his forehead.

“Well, so much for our easy hunt,” Dean groused.

“Let’s get back,” Sam said shakily. 

* * *

 

“We need to talk.”

Castiel felt something inside of him twist at the way Sam jumped at his voice.

“Wha-what is it, Castiel?”

Cas blinked. Both Winchesters mainly called him Cas. Sam had switched to his full name, and strangely emphasized it. “What’s going on? Why are you afraid of me?” he asked baldly.

Sam shifted a little on his bed, eyes darting around when Cas took a step into his room. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No?”

Cas disappeared, and reappeared at Sam’s other side. Sam’s mad scramble away might have been funny except for the stark terror in his eyes.

“Don’t do that,” he snapped.

“I don’t remember very well. But something happened. When . . . when Lucifer was in me, I—”

Sam stood, violently shoving away from the bed. “Nothing, Cas. It wasn’t you, it’s fine.”

“But you still feel like it was me,” Cas surmised. The flicker in Sam’s expression told him he was right.

“It’s not . . . I know it wasn’t you. I know that. I just . . . Lucifer, I can’t—” Sam’s eyes glazed over a little. “You let him . . .” Sam trailed off. Castiel felt something akin to what guilt might feel like.

“I am sorry, for my part in it.”

Sam smiled, but it looked pained and small. “I thought he was gone, y’know? Forever. And even though I remember all of it, I figured it was worth it, because he would never be free.”

Castiel sat down on Sam’s bed, staring at his hands. “I never understood when you talked about possession. It was a distant concept. Now . . . I can understand why you loathe it. Being out of control. If Jimmy Novak weren’t in heaven now, I would vacate this body and never possess another vessel.”

The bed sank a little. Castiel glanced over to see Sam sitting next to him, head bowed. “We’ve all gone through so much. Doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

“I don’t suppose the world is ever very fair.” Castiel hesitated, and then reached out and placed his hand on Sam’s shoulder. While the muscle under his hand tightened a little, Sam didn’t flinch; Cas took comfort in it.

“I’m sorry for how I’ve been acting around you. I’ll do better,” Sam murmured.

“You have no need to apologize. Your reactions are perfectly normal.”

Sam turned a little, a tiny smile hinting at the corners of his lips. “Cas, I don’t think any of us ever deserve to use the word normal.”

“True enough.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes.

“Are we okay?” Sam asked softly.

Castiel let his hand fall. “I suppose as ‘okay’ as we ever are.”

Sam stood decisively, and Castiel was the one to flinch as he loomed over Cas. Despite their conversation, he couldn’t help feeling like he still deserved a punch or some form of violence for what he had done.

Instead, Sam pulled him up and wrapped his arms around him. Cas did his best to shove back the human desire to cry, but he did let himself return the embrace.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LIFE THO  
> Right so yeah. Fic writing has been terrible lately, if you guys can't tell. Add onto that I've been struggling finding any kind of inspiration with your lovely prompts, and I feel terrible for that. I am chugging away with a few more, but I'm worried they're going to fall flat. IDK. Feeling overwhelmed with everything, y'know? SURVIVAL.


	13. Together on the Edge (Sar)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sar was amazing and gave me a ton of mini prompts that I couldn't pick from; so I combined them ;)
> 
> So have some sick!Sam, fainting!Sam, and exhausted!Sam yum :D

Sam stumbled a little, catching himself on the alley wall.

"Sammy, you coming?"

Lucifer smiled. "You don't go fast enough and he'll leave you behind."

Dean hadn't noticed his slip; Sam wanted to keep it that way. He forced himself upright, calling out, "coming," and ignoring the wave of dizziness that followed. He had caught an hour of sleep last night before the devil had decided that was enough and had woken him up to torture and pain. If he could just get through this hunt, he would drug himself into oblivion and recover enough to watch Dean's back in his hellbent quest to get Dick Roman.

A heavy drop fell from the sky. It was just another drop of blood raining down from the hell above him.

Ahead of him, Dean cursed. "Aw come on! We're never going to track the witch now."

Sam shivered, a few more drops raining down before the deluge began. It wasn't hell. It wasn't. Blood was warm. This was cold. Cold. "Oh Sammy, don't you remember the cold?"

"Sam!"

Sam blinked, staring at Dean through a veil. "What?" he mumbled.

"I've been yelling, can't you hear me?" Dean came a little closer. Sam stared in fascination at the raindrops caught in his eyelashes. He lifted a trembling hand to see if he could touch one.

"Dude, are you trying to poke out my eye?"

What was wrong with Dean's eye? Sam couldn't remember. He looked up, squinting as the rain continued to pour down.

"Let's go back to the car." Dean grabbed his elbow, steering him around.

"Th—the witch?" Sam asked. He was so cold, lying on a million icicles, waiting to be pierced.

"The witch can wait. We are not hunting in this." Dean let go of his arm, and Sam nearly stumbled again. Dean peered at him suspiciously. "What's wrong with you?"

"I'm fine."

The old Dean might have called Sam on his lie, but this Dean—the Dean that had lost everything—said nothing. "C'mon, we'll try again in the morning."

Sam followed his brother dutifully. It was all he could do anymore.

* * *

There was a bang on the door. Sam startled, staring at the mirror uncertainly. Had someone knocked? Or was that in his head?

"C'mon, princess! Some of us are still cold and wet!"

Dean. Dean was cold and wet. Sam glanced down at himself. He had gotten his boxers on before zoning out. He reached for his pants and then stood too quickly. A wave of dizziness struck, and Sam lost his balance, falling in an ungainly sprawl against unforgiving tile.

"Sam?!"

Lucifer laughed. "How pathetic. I mean, I expected that, but imagine what Dean will say."

Sam shoved himself upright, but it was too much too soon and as the door opened, the only thing he saw was Dean's wide eyes before he fell into darkness.

* * *

Sam shot upright, trying to get away from . . . something.

"Easy." Dean's voice was actually calm, a soothing tone that Sam didn't know he still possessed.

"Dean?" he asked blearily. "S'dark."

"Because you have a cloth over your eyes, doofus." Dean peeled the damp rag away. "You're running a temperature."

"Temperature." Sam repeated, wracking his brains. "So . . . I'm sick?"

"Yeah, genius. And you fainted."

There was a sardonic edge to Dean's last statement, but Sam was too tired to figure out what was wrong with it. He felt himself tipping backwards without meaning to.

"Whoa there. C'mon. Sit up. You need some fluids."

Sam cast a jaundiced eye Dean's way. "Green?"

"Yes, you freak, only green gatorade. Here."

Sam took it with a shaking hand. Dean steadied it with his own, helping Sam to take a few sips.

"Thank you." Sam felt a chill run through him and caught a whimper behind his teeth. He waited for Dean to leave.

His brother moved so he was kneeling on the bed behind him. Sam tensed, expecting him to turn into Lucifer, but Dean only set strong fingers to his shoulders, digging into the muscle. "What are you doing?" he asked. He sniffed a little, feeling mucous run down the back of his throat.

"You're achey, aren't you?"

Sam blinked. He was. "Oh."

"Yeah, oh."

For a few moments, Sam waited for something to change, for Lucifer to show up, but there was only the steady sensation of Dean massaging his shoulders. Slowly, he relaxed until his head was lolling back against Dean's chest.

"You are making this a lot more difficult," Dean grunted.

"S'rry." Sam tried to move—he really did—but couldn't quite figure out how.

"Don't be an idiot, you're fine."

Eventually Sam realized that Dean had stopped massaging, and had settled down so Sam was practically cradled in his arms.

"Dean?" he mumbled. "Wha're you doing?"

"Making up for not realizing you were getting sick."

Sam frowned. There was something wrong with that statement. "I didn't eben know," he said. "Why should you?"

"Because I've always known. And I should've caught it, but I was too . . ." Dean trailed off. Sam sniffed, feeling his head ached as he did so.

"I can take care of mb-yself."

"Yeah, well." Dean sighed, one arm coming to wrap around Sam's chest. "You shouldn't have to."

* * *

Sam was in hell. He felt his wounds mending and moaned, knowing that some fresh horror was about to visit.

"Can't you feel the beautiful agony? Embrace it, Sammy."

Sam stared blearily up at Dean. "Nuh," he mumbled.

"Wrong answer, kiddo." Dean took his newly regrown hand and began snapping the bones, one by one. "We've been doing physical torture for a while, hm? How 'bout a round of psychological?"

Sam felt something moving under his skin that was not supposed to be here. He groaned, tossing his head back against the blood-soaked wood.

"Sammy?"

Dean's tone had changed. Sam squinted up in confusion. His brother's image was wavering in front of him, and wasn't hitting him. It didn't make sense.

"Are you back with me?"

"Ba' fr'm where?" he managed to ask. Dean picked up the hand he'd been breaking and Sam whimpered—but his brother only smoothed a thumb over Sam's knuckles, back and forth. The motion allowed Sam a moment of reprieve. His gaze sharpened. "Deeb?"

"There you are." Dean's face was exhaustion layered with stress. "You've been pretty out of it, but I think your fever's coming down a bit."

Sam scanned Dean, finding him in old clothes, but probably not hurt. "Go shower," he finally said. "You stink."

He teased a small smile out of Dean for that. "Long as you promise not to go spiraling into that temp of 104, huh?"

"Deal." Sam let his eyes close. Hell was close, nipping at his heels. Before he was swamped in it, though, Dean was shoving him around, turning him onto his side.

"In case you throw up," he muttered.

Sam managed to lift his heavy hand, pawing uncoordinatedly at Dean. "Thab you."

Dean snorted. "Try that again when you can speak properly."

"One to talk," Sam said.

"Boy, you sure do get sarcastic when you're sick." A cool palm cupped his cheek; Sam sighed, leaning into it. "Sleep, Sammy."

The hand left, and Sam's eyes shot open. "You're leabing?"

Dean froze, sudden grief passing over his face before disappearing. "No, Sammy. I'm right here with you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how I said in my last note that I was struggling.
> 
> Yeah, still struggling. Life has pretty much sucked recently, so all prayers are welcome.
> 
> But to make up for it, I wrote myself some schmoop and sick!Sam. Sue me.


	14. Upside Down (anibutterfly)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Age-swap between Sam and Dean. Things are the same until they aren't. Anibutterfly's prompt.

“Saaaaaaaam.”

He took a deep breath. Counted to ten.

“Yes, Dean.”

“I did the stupid homework, I wanna go out.”

He was definitely going to need some aspirin to get through tonight judging by the tone of his little brother’s voice. “No, Dean. We just moved here, I haven’t checked out any of your new . . . friends.”

Dean rolled his eyes, flopping down on Sam’s bed and shoving his elbows into Sam’s side. Sam yelped, shoving him away with a scowl. “Quit it, Dean.”

“It’s Friday night, man. C’mon, you’re an adult now, you’re supposed to get cooler.”

“It’s cool to stay in school,” Sam said absently, re-opening his book.

“I cannot believe you just said that.” Dean buried his face in Sam’s pillow. “I’m a sophomore now, man, can’t you give me any leeway?”

Sam thought of peer pressure, hormones, and bad decisions. Not to mention the myriad of supernatural creatures out in the night. “Not going to happen.”

Dean growled a little. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

Sam watched him go, uncertainly flipping his book back and forth in his hands. It wasn’t fair, keeping Dean cooped up. He was a kid, who deserved a normal childhood.

“Dean. I . . . you could go. But I’d have to come with.”

Dean poked his head out of the bathroom, grinning widely. “Yes! You have to promise to be chill, okay?”

Sam sighed, getting up from bed and pulling on a flannel shirt. “I’ll try.” 

* * *

 

Sam jotted down the numbers before dropping his pencil, staring at the page bleakly. If he was right, they would run out of money within the next week. John planned on taking on a hunt far away once they had wrapped up the one nearby, which meant no money would be coming from him.

Sam opened up his schedule. He would take on a couple extra night shifts a week. That would help. Maybe he'd skip some meals as well.

"Sam! Stop messing around in there and help."

Sam grit his teeth but didn't say anything except for, "yessir," as he went out into the cold Massachusetts autumn.

"I need these traps oiled before we go after this thing."

Sam eyed them dubiously. "You really think a Native American spirit will be slowed down by bear traps?"

"They're iron, aren't they? Should work." John tossed Sam a rag and WD-40. It was questionable logic, but Sam got to work anyway.

"Dean out of school yet? He should be helping."

"He has a social studies test tomorrow, he needs to study after he gets home." Sam didn't bother lifting his eyes, knowing that the disparaging look on his father's face would be enough to set them off into another fight.

"Like social studies will ever be important," John snorted.

Sam took a deep breath as his muscles began to coil with tension. "The hunt we're going on is based on social studies, so yeah, I'd say it is," Sam snapped. "You want him on this hunt, then save it for Saturday."

"Watch your tone, boy."

Sam didn't trust himself not to lash out. He finished oiling the trap and went inside. 

* * *

 

Dean took one look at Sam, waiting for him in the Impala, and groaned dramatically.

"You two fight again?"

"It was nothing, don't worry about it," Sam said shortly. "How was school?"

"Got to second base with Julia," Dean smirked.

"Dean!"

"Don't be such a prude, Sammy."

Sam sighed, pulling the Impala out of the parking lot. "Did you at least finish your homework in study hall? You know you need to get ready for that test tonight."

"Yes, mooom."

"C'mon, dude. Don't slack off on this, no matter what Dad says."

"Crap, you two were fighting about me again, weren't you." Dean flopped against the seat and glared at Sam. "You've gotta stop riling him up."

Sam clenched his jaw. "It's not my fault the man has no sense of parental duty. He goes too far, and I swear I will take it to the courts and get guardianship."

He glanced over to find Dean looking shocked. "You . . . you wouldn't do that."

Sam bit his lip. "I'm not ruling it out, Dean."

Dean cursed fluidly before subsiding. "So in your grand fights over me, does it occur to either of you to ask my opinion?"

"Language," Sam muttered. He pulled up to their dilapidated rental. "And it's not like that. You're still a minor, and—"

"Whatever." Dean exited the Impala, slamming the door behind him.

"Handled that well," Sam muttered to himself before following his younger brother. 

* * *

 

"Dean, stop going on ahead. Stay behind me."

Dean scowled at him. Sam gave a stern glare in return and won.

"Boys, hush. We don't know exactly where the spirit manifests, and we can't afford any mistakes."

Sam hefted his shotgun a little tighter to his chest, seeing Dean mimic him.

He felt a wisp of cold air and stiffened. "Hold on, I think—"

Out of nowhere, an arrow slammed into the tree by Dean's head. Sam cursed, diving for him. He managed to get Dean onto the ground, but not before an arrow hit his back.

"Sam!"

"Stay down boys, I'm going to do the ritual."

Dean squirmed underneath him. "Let me up, Sam, you're hurt."

Sam shook his head, groaning a little as Dean's movement sent a wave of pain through his back. "Not 'til it's safe," he ground out.

"Sam," Dean hissed, but stopped moving when Sam gasped. "Where'd it get you?"

"Upper back."

Dean peered over Sam's shoulder and grimaced. "That looks bad."

"It isn't too bad, I can feel it." Sam's face was flashing between hot and cold. He let his head dip down to rest on his little brother's shoulder.

"Liar," Dean said softly.

John came jogging over. "Spirit's toast. Did it get you, Dean?"

"Just Sammy."

It took a lot of effort for both Dean and Dad to get Sam upright.

"This is why you shouldn't've gotten so big," Dean grunted.

"Says the midget," Sam panted.

The trip back became a blurred event filled with pain. Every motion would make the arrow quiver a little, and Sam was relieved to finally pass out when it was time to pull it out. 

* * *

 

Sam fumbled for his alarm clock, groaning as his upper back pulled. He managed to shut it off, and carefully levered himself out of bed. A shower was beyond him; Sam liberally applied deodorant, splashed water on his face, combed his hair, and hoped it was enough to pass.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Sam froze in the middle of pulling on his jeans one-handed. "I've gotta open the bookshop today. Go back to sleep, Dean, it's your day off."

Dean poked Sam in the side—Sam yelped and lost his grip on his pants.

"Dang it, Dean, stop goofing around. I'm going to be late as it is."

Dean stood in front of him, arms crossed. "You're hardly able to function, do you really think you can go to work?"

Sam scowled at him. "I need to."

"No. I'll tell Dad we're short money and he'll go hustle."

"And get arrested like last time? I don't think so." Sam leaned over, awkwardly pulling at his jeans.

Dean knocked his arm away, yanking Sam's pants up.

"Dean!" Sam squawked.

"You did it for me when I was a baby. I'm just returning the favor." The smirk on Dean's face was softened by fondness. "If you insist on going to work, then I'm going with you. I'll be your arms, dude."

Sam looked at him skeptically. "Really? You don't want to sleep all day, watch movies? Don't you have a date with that Julia girl?"

"She can deal." Dean began buttoning Sam's shirt. "It's my turn to be the big brother."

It might have been the heavy duty pain killers, but Sam couldn't help himself from looping his good arm around Dean's scrawny shoulders, pulling him into a one-armed hug and pressing his lips to Dean's temple.

"I have the best little brother," he declared.

"I have a giant sister," Dean blustered, wiggling out of Sam's hold. "C'mon, let's go." 

* * *

 

Sam dragged himself into their motel room, feet aching and bad shoulder tight after his night shift at the factory. For a second, he stood in the dark, swaying. Dean would finish school next week, and Sam would continue to work at two awful minimum wage jobs until their father uprooted them again. Sam would have to scramble to get Dean settled again and hunt down some kind of job that didn’t need references or work history. The unfairness of it all welled up out. Sam wanted to scream at his family, wanted to run away, wanted to give up and put a bullet in his brain.

Instead, he took off his shoes, and slid into bed next to Dean. He stared at his little brother. Dean was the only reason Sam continued to work, continued to live.

He would get grief for it in the morning, but Sam didn't care. He eased an arm around Dean, snuggling in close like they had when they were little.  Dean snorted in his sleep, but didn't wake up.

Sam stared into the darkness. After a while, he realized that his cheeks were wet, but he didn't move. 

It was April 24th.The last day of what should have been his second semester at Stanford. 

* * *

 

Dean was absently playing with the amulet around Sam’s neck. Sam cracked his eyes open, swallowing a couple times before he was able to speak.

“Wha’re you doing?”

“You got sick.”

Sam frowned. “I don’—“

“Your shoulder’s infected. You’re still running a fever.”

It was hard to focus. Sam must have a really high temperature. “Did you pay the rent? I had the money in . . . in the drawer. Drawer where we keep our keys.”

“Yeah, Sam, I got it.” Dean placed a cool cloth on Sam’s forehead. “You relax, okay?”

Sam lifted his hand, grasping weakly at Dean’s hand. “No, wait. The, um, my jobs. You call? Tony said I would lose my job after that last time Dad pulled me out for the hunt. He might—“

“Sam, you just . . .” Dean dropped his head. “You need to take care of yourself. You can’t wear yourself out, you know?”

His brain felt like molasses. Sam groaned as he tried to move. “Did you finish your homework yesterday? Wait, did you skip school? Dean, you’re gonna end up in detention.”

“Sam!” There was a desperate note in his brother’s voice. Sam stopped, looking up at him. “Sammy. You can’t . . . you can’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“You think I don’t see it?”

There was a paper in Dean’s hand. Through blurry eyes, Sam saw the familiar red logo.

“No, don’t—“

“You could’ve gone,” Dean whispered. “You’re miserable. All the time. It . . . it could’ve been your life, Sammy.”

“Couldn’t . . . couldn’t leave you, Dean.”

Dean swiped a hand across his eyes. “Sammy . . .”

“Could I get some water?”

“Yeah.”

Dean’s hand curled around his neck, lifting him enough to let him drink.

“You can’t do this anymore, Sam.”

“I can,” Sam said. “And I will.”

Dean gripped his hand hard enough to almost hurt. “Why? I’m not worth it.”

Sam was fuzzily sinking into sleep, but he managed to turn his head so it touched Dean’s hip. “You’re always worth it,” he murmured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK so I'm just gonna talk thru this because I'm so insecure about it.  
> I didn't really want to get into the whole demon blood thing-whether Sam or Dean would be the one dosed as a baby and all that. Instead I was trying to focus on what their relationship would be like, and how that would differ. I don't doubt for a second that Sam would be as ultra-protective as the older brother as Dean would have been. But at the same time I tried to keep their personalities the same. And the decision to go to Stanford . . . I mean, yes I 100% was seeing Sam desperately wanting to get away from hunting, but I couldn't see him leaving Dean. And so thus . . . angst.
> 
> Okay that's done. I want to thank all of you who wrote me a kind review after that last fic. Things still aren't great, but I am fighting through. Much love to all of you :)


	15. Pitfalls (sUnKiSsT)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sUnKiSsT asked for post-purgatory angst and Sam saving the day. And hurt. All the hurt. :D

“Why do you need to make a straightforward hunt complicated?” Dean demanded.

Sam’s eyes narrowed a little; Dean wasn’t sure whether it was irritation or hurt. “I’m not trying to complicate it, Dean, I just think we shouldn’t be cavalier about a ghost that was a serial killer. The evidence is incomplete at best, and—”

“What about the police reports? Those pretty much gave us everything we need. We find his bones, we torch him, end of business.”

“I think we should do more research,” Sam said stubbornly.

“Fine.” Dean stood. “You do what you want.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m sorry, since when do I need to report my whereabouts at all times?” Dean snapped. “It’s not like you cared for over a year.”

Sam stiffened, eyes darkening. “It wasn’t like that.”

Dean didn’t want to deal with Sam’s excuses anymore. “I’m going to grab some food. Have fun researching.”

The time Dean spent getting food, flirting with the waitress, and driving around aimlessly did nothing to quell his temper. He’d been pissed at Sam before . . . well, a lot of times. But this one felt more raw than all the rest. The rest of the times, he could justify Sam’s actions in that he hadn’t meant to hurt Dean. Leaving for Stanford—Sam getting away from hunting, not Dean. Turning to Ruby—desperation as Dean left him. This, though . . . being abandoned in purgatory for a girl? This had nothing to redeem it.

Dean slammed the door shut behind him, taking vindictive pleasure as Sam flinched.

“Did you get . . .” Sam took in Dean’s empty hands and rubbed a hand over his face. “Right. Well, I’ll be back in a few.”

“Don’t take too long, or I’ll do this hunt on my own,” Dean threatened.

Sam’s shoulders hunched. “I’ll be quick,” was all he said.

Dean tried to get the last word in. “You’d better be.”

Somehow, it didn’t make him feel any better.

* * *

“No wonder this place is scheduled to be demolished.”

“Shh,” Sam muttered. “Look at these symbols engraved in the doors. If the ghost owned this entire floor, each room might have signified something.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Or he was just crazy.”

Sam repressed the surge of annoyance. “Dean, look at this. It’s definitely black magic . . . this guy  might’ve been using his victims as sacrifices.”

Dean’s shoulders twitched; as good as saying he didn’t care, and Sam needed to stop wasting time. “We go for the bones, then you can explore to your heart’s content.”

Sam submitted, following Dean and keeping a watchful eye. The hotel was in disrepair; even if the psychotic serial killer didn’t have traps of some kind, chances were half the boards were rotted through.

“Room 21. Right there,” Sam pointed out.

Dean glanced around. “Can we just burn the entire building?”

“It’s a dry season. We’d likely start a wildfire.”

“Smokey Bear has nothing on you,” Dean muttered.

The door opened with an ominous creak. Sam’s hand began to sweat on his shotgun, though he wasn’t sure why. “Dean, I think . . .”

He saw it, a split second before it was about to happen. A thin wire across the door snapped as Dean continued to open it. Sam reached out, wrapping an arm around Dean while twisting to put his back towards the room. The blow that fell was expected. He’d been sliced up enough before to know the sensation, but never by an axe. At least, not outside of the cage.

“Sam!”

Sam stumbled heavily. The entry point had been near his scapula; the average height of a person’s neck. It had sunk deep enough to sink deep into muscle, but not enough to penetrate bone. There was a gust of cold air. Dean was ripped away, slamming into the wall. Sam tried to get to him, but he couldn’t get close enough to grab him before the ghost disappeared with him. Sam snarled, slamming his fist into the drywall.

“No,” he said. “Not again.”

There was a shout from the room down the hall. 15. The victim that the serial killer hadn’t gotten to finish off.

Sam raced down the hall. He slammed the door open, quickly stepping out of the way before another axe swung down.

“Sammy, don’t!”

Sam blinked. He hadn’t been called Sammy in . . . so long.

Dean was tied up, squirming against the bedpost. “It’s all booby trapped, he taunted me, saying I wouldn’t be able to escape because of them.”

His vision blurred, and Sam pressed a hand on the doorway, leaving a bloody handprint. “Where . . . where are they?”

“I don’t know,” Dean snapped. “Don’t you think I’d tell you if I did?”

Sam shivered. “Sorry. I’ll figure it out. I . . . can you see anything from there?”

“No,” Dean said tightly. “If you want to leave, do it now.”

Sam stared at his brother. “Leave? Why?”

“Get help.”

“I’m not going to leave you here with a sadistic serial killer’s ghost,” Sam said. “Have you gone insane?”

Dean’s eyes expressed his doubt in Sam’s ability to get them out of this. Sam pressed his lips together, examining the room. It had the look of a lavish suite in disrepair, leaving a lot of room for traps among the dusty furniture and thick carpet for traps.

Sam took a tentative step forward. 

* * *

Dean was vibrating with the need to move, but had no way to do so. Sam inched his way inside the room, eyes darting everywhere to look for threats.

The ghost appeared, knife in his hand. Sam dodged his blow, rolling out of the way and turning to fire the shotgun. His shot was true, but his evasive maneuver had placed him in a trap; Sam barely managed to get half of his body out of the way as a set of knives rained from the ceiling. From Dean’s angle, he couldn’t tell whether Sam had been hit.

“Sam, how bad did they get you?” Dean asked.

Sam panted out, “just a little.”

“A little as in ‘I’m bleeding to death over here,’ or ‘a couple stitches?’” he clarified.

“The latter.”

Dean scooted on his butt, tugging a little at the bedpost to see where Sam was lying. “Dude, don’t roll to the right. Bear traps. Painted like the floor.”

Sam sat up slowly, hand going to his bloody side. “Right. Hopefully there won’t be any more sur—”

With how bad their luck was, somehow Dean wasn’t surprised when the ghost chose then to reappear, but this time without his knife. Sam fired almost immediately, but not before the murderer had slammed Sam’s head into the floor.

Immediately terrified of Sam being unconscious and helpless, Dean shouted his brother’s name. Sam blinked at him, hair in his eyes.

“Ow.” His eyes suddenly cleared and his gaze zeroed in on the vent against the far wall.

“What is it?” Dean asked.

Without responding, Sam shoved upward, swaying alarmingly. Dean thought about blood loss and his stomach flipped.

Sam managed to avoid two other trip wires and an actual pressure plate before reaching the grate. Dean waited, wrists uselessly twisting against thick rope as Sam pried it open.

He pulled out a bloody cloth  bag.

“Is that—”

“He boasted before he died about loving to take people’s ears off.” Sam looked pale, though Dean wasn’t sure whether that was from blood loss or nausea. “If he’s attached to anything, this is it.” He doused the bag thoroughly in salt and lighter fluid.

“Look out!” Dean shouted.

Sam’s reflexes were more sluggish. The shotgun was knocked out of his hands, and the serial killer had his hands around Sam’s throat.

“Sam!” Dean shouted uselessly. He strained with all his might, but none of his bonds would budge.

One hand crawled along the floor to his lighter. Dean shouted insults at the ghost in the hopes that it would leave Sam, but could do nothing else.

Sam thumbed the lighter once, twice. The flame caught, and Sam was able to send the ghost into oblivion. He coughed, flopping a little on the floor.

“Not bad, Sammy.”

Sam turned a weary eye on Dean. “Next time I say we do more research, we do more research.”

“You’ve got it,” Dean agreed. 

* * *

 

Sam gave himself a few moments to breathe. He needed to get up to untie Dean. “Sam? You wanna help me out bud?”

Sam felt cold, weak. “Y-yeah.” He pressed his palms against the floor, feeling his fingers shake. “Um, I’m not feeling good.”

“That’d be the blood loss. You need to move, Sam. Now.” Dean had gotten very good at sounding like Dad when he wanted. The only difference was that Sam usually listened to Dean.

He pushed himself up, tilting dangerously towards the bear traps before righting himself.

“A few steps, Sammy. You’ve got this.”

Sam made it to him, but half-collapsed on top of his brother. He allowed himself a moment to feel Dean’s heartbeat thumping reassuringly before he slowly pulled out his boot knife and began sawing at Dean’s ropes.

When Dean’s hands were free, he slid the knife from Sam’s hands, taking charge over his feet. Which was good. Sam wasn’t sure he’d stay awake long enough. His head dipped down, dizziness making the room spin.

“Stay with me, Sammy.” There was a pressure over the axe injury; Sam bucked against the pain, briefly woken up again. “C’mon, you can’t pull a hero stunt like that and then die of blood loss. It just isn’t cool.”

“Mmm.” Sam was fighting to stay conscious. “Wanna sleep.”

“You do that, and I have to carry you out of this fun place. You don’t want to hurt my back, do you?”

Sam shook his head, hair sliding against Dean’s shirt. Dean used his belt to tie a pressure dressing across Sam’s back and stood him up. “Can I trust you won’t fall over as I get you out of here?”

“Can I fall over a little.”

“Not unless you want a bear trap to bite your—”

Sam’s stomach turned without warning; he barely managed to lean to the side before he threw up.

“Whoa, easy.” Dean’s hands seemed to be doing everything—holding his hair back, rubbing his stomach, keeping him from falling into his sick.

“Need to leave,” Sam muttered. “Yeah. Up we go.” Dean hauled him upright. “C’mon, Sammy. You can do this.” 

* * *

 

He’d jerry-rigged a blood transfusion to give Sam a boost, stitched up his back, bandaged his side, and it still didn’t feel like enough. The sharp words he’d thrown in Sam’s face day after day seemed to echo through his head over and over. You didn’t just abandon someone and then take on a serial killer ghost the next day. It didn’t make sense.

The instant Sam opened his eyes, Dean blurted out, “why did you do it?”

Sam stared at him through sleepy eyes. “Hm?”

“You shouldn’t’ve come after me. You were hurt. You should’ve gone back and gotten help.”

“Couldn’t do that.” Sam closed his eyes. “He would’ve killed you.”

Dean sat, stewing in uncertainty. He couldn’t really . . . say, what he was thinking.

As usual, Sam read his mind with scary accuracy. “Not the same thing. Thought you were . . . in heaven. Didn’t leave you on purpose.”

Dean swallowed. “Just get some rest, okay? You’re gonna need some time to heal up.”

Sam was obviously fighting sleep, but couldn’t stop his body’s exhaustion from taking over. Dean fought his own reservations and problems and reached out, sifting his fingers through Sam’s hair in a move that was sure to get him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I was halfway through writing this and realized it reminded me of something. K Hanna Korossy wrote called Secondary Victims. I looked it up, and the prompt actually COMPLETELY FITS. So sUnKiSsT look that one up for a more complete and fulfilling fic. I tried to not copy hers, which made my piece a little wonky. Hope it still works.
> 
> I also want to thank all of you for your kind words on the last one. Number one: wow, did not think I would get that positive of a response from the age swap one. So that gave me a huge confidence boost. And two: all of you are being so kind as I was having a bit of a rough patch and I love all of you okay. <3 <3 <3


	16. Nothing Remains (Tulz)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam never thought he would be dying of starvation with his brother singing nearby. But here he was.

“How’s it going, Sammy?”

“Just peachy.” Sam swallowed, his throat clicking drily. “You, uh, you okay? They hurt you?”

“Nah. Ground’s hard, but at least they’re feeding us, right?”

Sam shivered, rubbing one bony finger over the floor. “Right,” he lied.

“I spy, with my little eye—”

“—a wall,” Sam said.

“Spoil the fun.”

“So much fun.” Sam pressed an arm against his aching stomach. “When do you think Dad will find us?”

He could hear the grimace in Dean’s voice. “It’s been nearly three days. He’ll be here in no time. No way those witches didn’t leave any trace behind. Why, you getting bored?”

“Sure. I’d kill for a book.” And by book, he meant food. All the food. The pizza from a three days ago felt like it had been an eternity. And however that spell worked, it made everything worse. Like the witch had promised, laughing at him, every bite of food his brother took would take away from Sam until there was nothing left. So far, no limbs had disappeared, but Sam’s ribs were sticking out and he couldn’t stand up without shaking anymore.

The door of his cell opened, the witch right on time. “What is your answer?” she whispered.

“No.” Sam covered his eyes. “Go away.”

“You must be hungry, hm? Just say yes and be fed. Let your brother go hungry instead.”

“I said go away!”

“Sammy, what’s going on?!”

Sam swallowed as the witch left, her gnarled face twisted in a smile. “Nothing, Dean, I’m fine.” 

* * *

 

“Sam! Sammy!”

Sam started, hearing the desperation in Dean’s voice. “Dean?”

“I’ve been calling for you for ten minutes,” Dean snapped. “What are you doing?”

“I was . . . I was asleep.”

“I can barely hear you, dude, what’s going on?”

Sam drew up his strength. “I’m fine. I was just really deeply asleep, that’s all.”

“I can tell when you’re lying, Sam.”

Sam let his head fall back against the floor. He felt . . . drained. If Dad didn’t show up soon, there wouldn’t be anything left of him.

Out of nowhere, Dean started singing. Sam listened to his brother’s surprisingly soothing voice and smiled a little, curling up on his side. His hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

Something vibrated through the floor. Sam’s brain sluggishly thought maybe someone had stepped near his head.

“Did you hear that, Sammy? Cavalry’s here.”

Sam couldn’t figure out what Dean was talking about, exactly. He lay in a stupor. His heart skipped one beat. And then another. Electrolytes were probably in the cellar; Sam’s had learned a little about it in chemistry last year. Chemical balances could determine . . . something. Electricity. He couldn’t think straight.

He could hear Dean yelling for their dad. There was a loud bang, and then nothing.

“Boys?”

“In here, Dad!”

He could hear Dean exuberantly telling their Dad about the witches, what had happened. Would they leave him? He was almost nothing, there wouldn’t be any point to taking him along anymore.

“Sammy’s in this one, I think.”

The door creaked. Sam heard Dean gasp, and then calloused hands were on his face, neck, torso. “Sammy, what happened? Did they never feed you?”

“Spell,” Sam managed to rasp. Dad cursed and ran out of the room. Sam felt himself being lifted, cradled close to Dean.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he moaned.

“Couldn’t . . . do ‘nything. Just worry.” Sam dropped his head against Dean’s shoulder. He felt his heart skip another beat. “Be okay.”

He slipped into unconsciousness. 

* * *

 

It was depressing, how Sam was so used to waking up in a hospital. He could feel the pulse oximeter on his finger, the nasal cannula making his throat dry, the tug of an IV on his hand.

He blinked, slowly letting himself get his bearings. Dean’s head was next to his on the bed and he was snoring.

“Dean?” Sam murmured.

His brother’s head shot up fast enough that Sam got whiplash. “Sam! You’re awake.”

“Ow. Loud.”

Dean’s hand went to his wrist, checking his pulse. “Are you in pain? How are you feeling?”

“Tired. Kinda woozy.” Sam blinked slowly. “Witches dead?”

“Yeah, after Dad got them, he went back for the altar to stop the spell.”

“Mmm.” Sam shifted a little. His whole body felt bruised. “We leaving?”

Dean’s face went thunderous. “No. Sam, your heart was out of rhythm, that’s how bad you were malnourished and dehydrated. We’re staying until you are better, you hear me?”

Sam nodded docilely.

Dean opened his mouth to say something else, but the door opened. Dad surveyed the two of them. “How is Sam?”

Annoyed their dad didn’t even address him, Sam replied before Dean could. “I’m fine. What took you so long to find us?”

For a second it was like before, and Sam’s comment burrowed under their father’s skin and caused his usual reaction of irritation and no nonsense authority.

To Sam’s surprise, however, that bled away leaving only a heavy kind of sorrow in Dad’s face. “I didn’t get back from my hunt until a whole day after you two were taken. By the time I was able to track down what had happened, the witches had covered their trail pretty thoroughly. I had to enlist Bobby’s help.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Bobby helped? He didn’t try and shoot you again?”

“He likes the two of you more than he dislikes me,” their dad said drily.

“How soon til I can leave?” Sam asked hopefully.

Dad grimaced. “With how bad it got, I think it’ll take a couple weeks. CPS isn’t on our case because we come from a different county, but best be careful. Need be, we’re past the danger zone so we could bug out.”

“Did you find the spell they used?” Dean asked.

Behind his back, Sam shook his head, staring wide-eyed at their dad.

He visibly hesitated, but answered Dean with a negative. Sam sighed in relief, pasting a fake smile as Dean turned back to him.

He would give anything to have Dean never find out. 

* * *

 

Dean cursed.

Sam flinched guiltily, grabbing his shirt. “Dean! Knock why don’t you?”

Dean pulled the shirt away, staring blankly at Sam’s body. Sam’s boxers were even loose on him. “Sam . . .”

“I just need to eat more and work out, it’ll be fine,” Sam defended. “Make all the stickman jokes you want.”

“I don’t want to joke about this, Sam.” Dean’s hand rested lightly on Sam’s exposed ribs. “How much do you weigh now?”

“I don’t know.”

“You should’ve said something. I was sitting there, joking about how it wasn’t so bad, eating like a pig . . .”

Sam shook his head, wrapping his thin fingers around Dean’s hand. “It helped. Knowing you were okay.”

Dean wrapped Sam up in a hug. “I’m so sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.” Sam imagined Dean finding out about what the spell did and shuddered. It would kill Dean. “Nothing at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one took me foreverrrr I think I started and stopped and deleted and fdjsklfjkdsa. I'd already done several fics where Sam had been captured or trapped and was starving from that. Didn't want to repeat that, so I finally came up with this. Hopefully it fulfills what you were looking for Tulz!


	17. Turn Your Face Away (BitterSweetJoy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That season 5 angst fest. BitterSweetJoy, here's your post-Bobby "lose my number" scene. Probably not canon-complicit because I didn't rewatch, so . . . take with a grain of salt.

Sam stared at his phone. The urge to toss it into the ditch by the sidewalk was overwhelming, to the point that his hand twitched.

_Lose my number. You’re a vampire, Sam. Lose my number. You’re a vampire, Sam. Lose my number._

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. He had to . . . he had to focus. Stay on task. He had so much to make up for, and he couldn’t do that if he let himself get sucked into a spiral of despair.

“Are you going to buy something or what?”

Sam flinched, looking up at the bored, middle-aged woman running the occult shop. “Sorry. Just, um, these herbs.”

She rang them up, eyes tired and dead. Sam knew the feeling.

“Thank you,” he managed.

He got a brief nod in return. Sam stumbled back onto the street, blinking in the bright light. He had to get back to Bobby and Dean.

There was a split second. Sam saw it and knew he had a choice. There was a man hauling garbage next to the curb, and a truck hurtling around the corner.

Sam had failed so much, but he could save this one. He lunged forward, using the bulk of his weight to propel the man out of the path of danger. Though he hadn’t gone too far into the truck’s path, Sam knew it wasn’t enough. The edge of the truck slammed into the left half of his body, sending him spinning away.

Sam blinked up at the sky. Shock slowly faded, leaving sharp pain up his side and shoulder. Sound filtered in—the raised voices of shock and alarm.

“—okay? Can you hear me?”

Sam rolled over, pressing upwards with trembling arms. His shoulder howled in pain.

“He shouldn’t move, should he?”

“He saved my life!”

“Someone call for help! Right? I mean, the police, or an ambulance or something.”

“That sonuvabitch just drove off. Should’ve been arrested.”

Sam batted away helpful hands and stood. He had to . . . had to get back to Dean and Bobby. They didn’t want him there, but at least he could try and atone for everything he’d done.

_You’re a vampire, Sam. Lose my number._

* * *

 “Where the hell is he?” Dean groused.

Bobby was silent, examining the devil’s trap on the ceiling.

“You did this sigil wrong,” he said.

Dean looked up at it. “Sam did it.”

Bobby’s lip curled a little. “Well, that might explain it. Unless the guy wants us to die.”

Dean twitched at the pure venom in Bobby’s voice. He’d never really heard Bobby sound like that. “Sam’s tired, I’m sure it was a simple mistake.” He scooted the ladder over, staring at the painstakingly painted symbol again. “Are you sure it’s wrong?”

“You questioning me on this, boy?”

Dean acquiesced, grabbing the paint.

“Hey.”

Dean turned, seeing Sam leaning on the door. “Took you long enough.”

“S-sorry.”

“Where are the herbs?”

“What?”

Dean scowled, getting off the ladder. “Seriously, Sam? You’re gone for hours and then forget what you left for? Did you go off to drink some blood?”

Sam stumbled back like he’d been hit. “No!”

“Dean. Fix the sigil.”

Dean blinked, looking back at Bobby. “What?”

“What sigil?” Sam asked.

He pointed up at the one Bobby had been talking about. Sam squinted.

“Why would we change it?”

“It’s wrong,” Bobby said.

Sam’s brow furrowed. “No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is.” Bobby’s voice was weirdly insistent. Dean took a deep breath.

“Bobby could you grab me that paint over there by the window?”

Bobby crossed his arms. “Let Sam get it.”

The alarm bells in Dean’s brain were ringing. “Well, I need Sam to steady the ladder.”

Somehow, it wasn’t a surprise to be tossed across the room.

* * *

“Bobby,” Sam breathed. Next to him, Dean was stock still, the only thing in motion his trigger finger, which was twitching rhythmically.

“I suppose saying, ‘this is a pickle,’ would be an understatement.”

Sam wasn’t able to find the humor as he stared at Bobby’s wheelchair. “Can you . . . is there any um, anything the doctors said . . .”

“Not likely,” Bobby said shortly. Sam flinched away, feeling another layer of thick guilt wrap around his heart.

“You need anything from us?” Dean asked gruffly.

“Gonna need a whole hell of a lot, getting set up back at my place.”

Sam eagerly grasped the opportunity. “You don’t have to worry about anything, Bobby, we’ll take care of it. Anything you want.”

Bobby’s gaze, fuzzy from painkillers, sharpened a little on Sam. “Sam. What the demon said, it wasn’t—“

“I’m going to get started,” Sam blurted out. “You’ll need a ramp, right? And we can move your bedroom to the first floor, in your study. I’ll keep your books organized.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Bobby said slowly.

Dean spoke up again, voice filled with sorrow. “Bobby, we’re sorry.”

“For what? I’m the idiot who got hisself possessed. Stupid of me, especially with everything going on. Naw, you boys help me get set up and we’re square.”

“You got it.” Dean took a few steps forward, briefly touching Bobby’s shoulder. Sam felt a weird surge of emotion; nostalgia, jealousy, love, looking at the two of them. Bobby deserved a son like Dean. Without saying another word, he slipped out. He had work to do.

* * *

“Sam.”

He jumped, whirling with hammer upraised. Dean was there, raising his hands defensively. “Easy, cowboy.”

An irritated comeback was on the tip of Sam’s tongue; he swallowed it. “Do you need anything?”

“I made lunch. Bobby’s saying my chili tastes terrible, so I need you to back me up.”

Sam grimaced. The pain from his ribs was making him drained and nauseous, the last thing he wanted to do was eat Dean’s famous questionable chili. “I want to finish this up. I’ll eat later.”

Dean eyed the ramp. “Right. Well, no offense Sammy, but you could use some lessons in woodworking.”

Sammy. It had been so long. It almost felt like his heart had quivered when Dean had said it, but it was a slip of tongue, nothing more. Sam took a shuddering breath. “I’ll try and fix it.’

“Alright. Your choice.”

When Dean had finally disappeared, Sam doubled over, muffling his cough in his sleeve. Pain wrenched through his chest. He’d need to take more cough syrup. It had been nearly a week and his cough wasn’t going away.

He straightened up and tight bands cinched across his chest. Sam toppled over, wheezing as his ribs felt like they were on fire.

“Dean,” he called weakly.

He coughed again, only able to get his hand up in time to cover it. There was blood when he lowered it.

Dean would find him. Maybe. If he didn’t decide to follow up on his promise and finish Sam off.

With that comforting thought, Sam let the darkness swamp him.

* * *

Dean stared at the fading yellow and green bruises on Sam’s torso. He’d seen Sam was hurting and done nothing. Mom would’ve been ashamed of him. Of course, it would’ve helped if Sam hadn’t lied to him.

“Sam.”

Sam’s head turned. His brow creased like it had when he was a baby and waking up from his nap.

“D’n.”

Said his name the same way too. Dean smiled sadly, swiping Sam’s hair away from his sweaty forehead. “You’re sick, Sam. Open your eyes.”

When he was finally able to look Sam in the eye, fondness slid away into something more bitter. “Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?” he demanded.

Sam’s bewildered gaze wandered up to the ceiling before settling on Dean again. “Hurt?”

Bobby coughed from the corner. “Dean, maybe—“

Dean ignored him and gestured violently. “Broken ribs, you idiot. You didn’t breathe right for a week and got pneumonia.”

“Sorry.”

It was too easy to turn and walk away. Dean paused at the doorway though, thinking of the expression on Sam’s face when Lucifer rose.

“Sam,” he said. “If we’re going to stop the apocalypse, you can’t lie to me. Not anymore. If not . . . that’s it. It’s over.”

“No!” There was a thump and Dean whirled to see Sam half-sprawled off the couch, reaching for Dean. “Please, I’ll do better, I swear.”

Bobby cursed, rolling forward. “Git your butt back into bed, Sam.”

Sam stared up at both of them with liquid eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll leave, I swear.”

Dean blinked, startled by the turn. “What? Who said anything about leaving?”

His brother was mumbling under his breath and Dean strained to hear him.

“Lose number, vampire. Lose . . . lose number. Vampire.”

Dean reached out, gathering Sam off the floor and getting him situated again. “Crap, Bobby, he’s burning up. I think he’s delirious.”

Bobby looked a little pale. “Gimme a sec with hIm?”

Loathe to leave Sam, Dean hesitated. “But—“

“Just for a minute.”

“Fine.”

* * *

Sam was burning, like he deserved.

“Sam.”

The voice was too kind; Sam ignored it, he knew it wasn’t real.

A rough hand clasped his own. “The demon said it, Sam. I’m with you, boy. I screwed up before, but I ain’t cutting you out, you hear me?”

Sam frowned, turning his head a little. “Bobby?”

“Yeah, Sam.”

“Don’ . . . hot.”

“Yeah, that’d be the fever, kid. Just hang in there. It’ll get better, I swear.”

Sam sank into the confusion a while, but a bit of him calmed as Bobby’s voice continued to rumble on. He could figure the rest out when he woke up again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bad news . . . this is the end.
> 
> When I started this, I had the grand idea of posting a fic every few days, filling tons and tons of prompts. Months later, here we are. I did finish most everyone's prompts, just not any multiples, so I'm happy for that at least! I think when it comes down to it, as great as it is to work off of prompts, I find it difficult to go off of ideas that don't mesh with where my writing is at the moment . . . or something. Being busy with work hasn't helped that either.
> 
> In any case, it may have been difficult to write these prompt fics, but I have loved doing them! You all have such amazing, creative, and chock full of hurt!sam ideas, I wish I could finish all of them :( 
> 
> All of that to say, thank you all for such a fun time. I definitely will come back to a few of these prompts in the future, and the leftover extra prompts will be in my idea list! Thanks for everything, and I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did :)


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